From Ashes Reborn
by Gaslight
Summary: NOW COMPLETE! Troy's been sacked. Andromache & Paris have fled, but what does Fate have in store for them, and what do they discover about themselves along the way? Andromache x Eudorus primarily, Paris x Helen.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **From Ashes Reborn

**Author: **Gaslight

**Rating: **M (eventually)

**Genre:** Drama/Romance

**Summary:** AU. Troy has been sacked and destroyed, but could another alliance rise up to reclaim it? Andromache and Paris work separately under different circumstances to make that a reality, and in the process make unexpected discoveries about love and power.

**Disclaimer:** The characters do not belong to me, but rather to Homer and Warner Brothers, and I'm making no money from this. The original characters are mine.

**Note:** This is a "what if?" after the credits roll. Some things I've kept from the movie, others I've used from myth, and the rest I've either made up or been ignorantly inaccurate about. The Greeks are alternately called the Achaeans so that one term doesn't become repetitious. I would list all the changes, but that would take some of the joy out of it – I would think. If you want the movie, watch it. If you want _The Iliad, _read it. This isn't meant to be either, just something (hopefully) fun/interesting/original, etc. If it's horrendous and mediocre, I appreciate feedback all the same. Readers have been the best teachers I've encountered so far. I began this last August and there are 8 chapters already written. I told myself I'd never post another WIP ever again, but some habits are impossible to break…

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**Chapter 1**

Above them, Troy burned.

The unleashed Greek fury, a dull roar and thunder of carnage, echoed through the narrow, dimly lit passageway. Joining this oppressive tune of war were gasps of exhaustion and wretched sobs of grief and fear as pasts were destroyed overhead. And the futures of all were uncertain at best.

Andromache held her torch high and looked behind her at the group she was leading through the underground corridor. Hector had not ordered her to bring others with her on the escape route, but she knew he expected more feet than just hers would run along the sandy path. No matter their station or worth, her husband would have wanted to see any Trojan be spared from the swords of the Achaeans.

Her serving girl, Iasemi, was immediately behind her, arms full with the heavily swaddled Astyanax. The babe was silent, and for this Andromache was grateful. Until Paris managed to rejoin them, she was the unwilling commander of this band. She could not be general and mother, and it was only duty -- coupled with naked desperation -- that was preventing her from shedding the former mantle in preference of the latter.

Treading tightly on fair Iasemi's heels was the boy Aeneas, struggling under the burden of his old father. As Andromache swung her torch, she saw one firm hand clasping the old man's to hold him upright against his shoulder. The other hand was gripped around Priam's sword, and such was the determination she saw in the rigid set of his jaw that Andromache did not doubt for a moment he would wield it swiftly and surely. His age, green and untried, was no impediment. She was certain that, should they be accosted, she would be thankful for whatever protection he could provide. That is, until Paris overtook them.

_He will find us_, she thought. _He must._

The night after Hector's body had dissolved among the embers, she had stolen away from the funeral games and macabre revelry. She would not begrudge them the celebration of the death of their heroic Prince, whose sandals now left the rocky battlefield behind to tread the earth of the Underworld. King Priam's good subjects prided themselves that the countless warriors below were finding their already glorious company's lustre intensified one hundredfold by the added presence of Hector and his shining helm.

Andromache could not say her loss was greater than theirs, but her heart felt it. That night, as others celebrated, she had taken up a torch, just as she did now, and she walked the corridor alone. She counted the paces, anything to preoccupy her mind and at least temporarily banish the images of Hector's dead, defiled body lying rigid on the bier. While those above her had sung of the many warriors who had met glorious ends, her steps became a tally of the women of those warriors – their wives, mistresses, and mothers, sisters and daughters. Everyone they left behind when that final breath was drawn.

On she went, and by the time she had reached the end of the tunnel and saw the waters of the Scamander sparkling in the moonlight, she was no longer alone. She felt the commiseration of generations of widows bidding her welcome, and her skin seemed to burn with an unearthly touch. A breeze from the river brought a familiar scent and she turned to see if Hector was truly standing beside her. She had never felt his presence so strongly before, and it infused her with a will she recognized as not wholly her own.

Andromache now called upon that strength as she fled, and wondered if her husband had managed to escape the trappings of Hades when she felt her strides become longer and without hesitation. The Prince of Troy's steps had often rung throughout the halls of the palace, and she heard such echoes from her feet shimmering along the stony walls.

"Hurry!" she cried, hoping the others would find it within themselves to push onward, though their knees might be weakening. They were very close to the river now, and even the frightening certainty that dangers awaited them outside could not dampen her desire to leave this infernal tunnel. Like a conduit, it would carry a river of Greeks, who would discover this escape route when they razed the entire city. The count of the royal dead would lack Hector's wife and child, the hope of Troy's rebirth, and the barbarians would give chase. Gods willing, by the time that occurred, a great distance would lie between invaders and refugees.

Iasemi gave a startled cry when, in her desire to match her mistress's pace, her foot caught in the hem of her garment and she stumbled forward. Her fear was not for herself but rather the young king in her arms, for she immediately assured Andromache that all was well and apologized for her clumsiness.

It was on the tip of Andromache's tongue to reply that bruises may have been spared only to suffer worse in a short time, but she would not let the others be burdened with her despairing thoughts. Each one had no doubt already pondered any number of bleak fates.

The end was near. The torch she held began to flicker and snap madly from the wind that quickens flight in any narrow space. Soon she saw the branches of bushes that masked the open doorway from sight of the river, and called out to the others to stop. The passageway was filled with the sounds of gasps, coughs, and scuffling feet.

"The moon is out and will offer its own light," she said, keeping her voice low. "I shall extinguish the torch so that we will not provide the Greeks with a beacon. Now, walk straight and take your rest."

Parting the foliage, she stepped through and held one bush back to make it easier for the others to exit. As they emerged, she counted them and felt her shoulders slump heavily when the last person entered the balmy air along the riverbank. Of the twenty-three she knew had entered the tunnel with her, only seventeen remained. The others had fallen behind or to the side, left by their fellow fugitives to either die or continue at their own will.

Though there was ample room, the group did not venture to divide, not even for a short distance. Once the soft grasses of the flood plain were beneath their feet, they sank down onto the verdant carpet and expelled the last of the stifling subterranean air from their lungs.

In this tight cluster, Andromache saw Helen assist Aeneas with his old father, setting him gently onto the ground and tending to the wound he had sustained on his brow. Another woman, bearing the leather case of a well-stocked healer, began to go from person to person, asking if she could be of any aid. Andromache could not recall her face as one that had entered the tunnel, but if Fortune had seen fit to grant them this favor, she would snap it up eagerly. Survival may be realistic after all, she thought.

After seeing that all were resting and regaining their strength for the next push onward, Andromache turned to Iasemi and took Astyanax from the girl's arms. "Sit," she told her. "You have done well."

Iasemi smiled as much as her exhaustion would allow and gratefully took a place beside a mother who was struggling to keep her daughter quiet. The toddler had a grimy fist jammed into her mouth and was on the verge of tears as she stared into the distance. Andromache followed the child's gaze and saw the cause of her fright. A lake of fire shimmered in the distance, every stick, thatch, and slain Trojan feeding the flames of its own destruction. From wall to wall it was burning.

"There, there," Iasemi soothed, taking the bundle from her back and setting it before her. She untied the knot and retrieved something Andromache could not see, but the girl's inquiring look asked permission to give the weeping child an object to calm it. Andromache nodded assent and when Iasemi pressed the item, with some effort, into the child's clenched fist, she identified it as the small carved lion Hector had whittled on that ill-fated voyage from Sparta. He had left her in the very first stages of pregnancy and the hope for a son had, he said, sustained him in times when he felt overwhelmed by his brother's stupidity and selfishness.

Andromache felt her breath catch at the sight of it and she was flooded with both sadness and relief. Iasemi had been grabbing anything she saw that might be of use – Andromache knew some inconspicuous traveling garments were in that bundle and she herself had shoved in a pouch of dried dates and figs – and the girl had not forgotten the needs of a child.

She espied a large, flat rock behind her and she retreated to it, her knees weakening with every step. When she could relieve herself of this aching physical burden, that of bearing her own weight, she did so with a stifled moan.

As if he had been waiting for the moment when his mother's attention would be undividedly his, Astyanax gave a whimpered cry and rubbed roughly at his face. When she shifted him from one arm to the other, she realized why he was fussing so. "What is it, little Prince?" she whispered. "You wish some of Troy's treasures were secreted elsewhere?"

With one hand, she divested him of the large swaddling cloth and laid it over her lap, then placed Astyanax on it with something approaching reverence. His diaper was removed, only to reveal that he wore another one. Between them lay a glittering, jumbled collection of coins and jewelry of bronze, silver and gold, with assorted gems. It was only a pitiful fraction of what she had possessed, scooped up in the brief minutes after the first cry of murder within Troy's walls had been raised. Rings, clasps of twisted gold, and earrings – some lacking a mate – could be sold or bartered on this escape.

She was beginning to calculate their worth when she heard a voice beside her and jumped upon seeing the healer sitting on the rock, the hard leather case resting between them. Andromache's hands flew to the cloth and flipped it closed to cover the riches.

"Did I startle you, my princess?" the woman asked kindly. Now, at such close quarters, Andromache saw that the woman was elderly, her hair white and almost translucent in the moonlight.

"No!" Andromache protested, too loud and quick.

The woman clucked softly under her breath in what seemed to Andromache like amused indulgence. She was about to chastise the woman for her impudence when Astyanax became the new object of the healer's attention. "My, you have grown!" she exclaimed, reaching her arms out to the babe, who stared at her, transfixed.

Andromache stared at the woman in confusion. "Were you of our house?" she asked. "I do not recognize your face."

The woman did not reply at first, instead slipping Astyanax out from under the swaddling cloth, a motion that jingled the treasures concealed beneath. "What a rich little fellow you are!" she cooed softly. "Rich in all the things that matter."

All the while her son was being fawned over by this strange woman, Andromache found herself unable to object. Just as the moon found purchase in the old woman's hair and reflected it, so did her body possess a power, an aura of authority that seemed contrary to her small size and age. Priam's wife had never been so queenly and commanding, and Hecuba had been highly esteemed, even by subjects of other kings. Even the task of questioning this woman required a measure of effort and will, for the words came from Andromache's mind easily enough, but as they reached her tongue, she felt an inner warning to speak carefully.

"Have I––?" she began.

"Yes," the woman replied, interrupting, though her eyes did not leave Astyanax, now being dandled on her knee. "You have seen me before." A smile of perfectly white and even teeth focused its charm on the boy and Astyanax could not resist. He gave a small baby squeal and kicked his feet in delight.

The woman giggled and Andromache noticed that Helen, from a short distance away where she was still tending Aeneas' father, looked up in alarm. She rose to her feet and advanced to where the two women sat, but Andromache held up a hand to halt her. Helen stiffened then reluctantly relaxed, but she did not return to her seat on the grass.

"I have not paid much heed to matters of late," the woman said, the sudden forthcoming words startling Andromache. "This war has made my house a disagreeable place and I have sought distance from it, letting others behave as monstrously as they desire."

Andromache found her tongue, though the woman's words confused her utterly. "You are here with us," she consoled. "We have need of you now, so I shall never say you have abandoned your duties. I shall tell your family this, should you wish me to."

The old woman exhaled, a sigh heavy with regret, made more weighty when she looked over her shoulder at the crimson aura rising higher and higher into the night sky. "Troy begins anew tonight," she said, gaze still on the leaping flames. "I would call it a birth of some sort. Death breeds Life, and so I am here."

She gathered Astyanax into her arms. As she turned to hand him back to his mother, Andromache saw not an old woman with wrinkled brow and neck, but a beauteous young creature. The arms that held Astyanax were pale and smooth, and on the dark lustrous curls rested a small diadem, affixed with a small, silver crescent moon.

But just as soon as this vision appeared, it was gone – and Andromache scrabbled for a coherent thought or properly reverent utterance.

"Do you remember me now?" the old woman asked mischievously.

"Blessed Goddess!"

Artemis' eyes danced, as though she found the inept comprehension of mortals boundlessly amusing. Her solemn moment over Troy's devastation and the machinations of her immortal kin had been short-lived, but Andromache wondered if that was the way of all the gods – capricious about mortal concerns, for they were but mere trifles for ageless beings. She had been raised to revere those deathless gods, even as she feared their callous and tricky whims.

"It was my duty to be at his birth," the goddess said, "as I am at all childbeds, whether as this old crone or another. So many labors are a trial, even for a goddess. I have never had my hand gripped so tightly as you did. But this little one was worth it." She chucked Astyanax playfully under the chin. "Zeus loved Hector greatly, and I thought it fitting to see you on your journey tonight."

Helen had visibly exhausted the rest of her tightly-reined patience and drew up to Andromache. "Sister," she said, speaking to the Trojan princess but looking at the old woman in bald curiosity, "how much longer do we dare wait?"

Andromache opened her mouth to speak, having been struck dumb by the goddess's playful reminiscing of Astyanax's birth and confession of Zeus's regard. But Artemis seemed not at all disturbed by this intrusion and looked up at the Spartan queen in kindly interest, like that of any old woman. "We cannot leave without Prince Paris," she said. "And we shall not."

Helen looked to Andromache, her hopeful expression begging it to be true. When Andromache nodded mutely, Helen smiled in silent gratitude, but then brought a hand to her mouth and sobered, conscious that her visible happiness was ill-suited. Andromache glanced at the passageway, wishing that the branches would part, Paris would emerge, and this strange madness could be left behind.

"He will appear shortly," Artemis told Andromache. "He has a champion that will not see him harmed." She rose from the rock and took up the leather case, slinging it over her shoulder. A stray turn of the moonlight transformed the case into a fine archer's bow, and a quiver of golden arrows shone upon her back. Andromache's eyes quickly went to Helen, certain that she would have seen this metamorphosis, however brief. Helen was visibly curious, as though uncertain of the old woman, but not stunned or amazed at the presence of a goddess. The goddess had decided to reveal herself only to Hector's widow. Artemis cupped Helen's chin in her hand and said, "Aphrodite will bring him to you safely."

"Your confidence bolsters my own, good woman," Helen replied.

Artemis smiled and let her hand fall. Then she turned to Andromache and bent low. "Go with grace and safety," she whispered. "I shall be seeing you again in the future." She straightened and looked at each woman in turn. "Both of you."

With a final smile, she left them and made straightway through the gathering of seated Trojans, pausing once or twice to kneel beside one of the suffering fugitives and produce a vial or other healing item from her case.

While Helen's attention turned to the passageway, her hopes for Paris's swift arrival apparent in both face and body, Andromache watched the old woman walk on. She swore she did not blink, but suddenly the goddess was gone, leaving not a trace in her wake.

_I shall be seeing you again. _The gods and goddesses had many attributes and any one of them was prayed to for a number of everyday things. Farmers, shepherds, hunters, virgins, and birthing mothers all had prayers to offer the moon goddess, but Artemis had made little Astyanax the center of conversation. Andromache brought a hand to her stomach as she cradled her son with the other. Was this to be Hector's final gift to her?

Helen's surprised cry brought her out of her thoughts. Stumbling through the foliage was Paris, bow clenched firmly in one hand. In the other, he held Briseis by the wrist, the girl weeping and following her cousin with visible resignation. Even as they left the tunnel for the cool and cleansing air of night, Briseis cast a regretful look at the door, as though she would rather return to it than continue onward.

Andromache deposited Astyanax onto the swaddling cloth and quickly refastened the outer diaper, the treasures once more securely hidden. She called Iasemi over to her and instructed her to make a sling of the swaddling cloth so that it would be easier to bear him. This done, she hurried over to Paris and Briseis. Helen had her arms thrown around her beloved's neck and was kissing him with relieved fervor.

"Briseis?" Andromache put her hand on the girl's shoulder and felt her trembling. She enveloped her in her arms and let Briseis take what comfort she could.

"He's dead," the girl whimpered.

Andromache's hand paused in mid-stroke above Briseis' curls. "He?"

Briseis did not reply, but the wretched moan and misery told Andromache that the child's Greek captor had at last been slain.

Andromache smothered the sound of triumph that rose in her throat. How many days had she waited, hoping the murderer of her husband would finally find his own thread heartlessly cut by the Fates?

Instead, she clasped Briseis tighter, for she had no quarrel with the girl. Who was she to condemn someone who had fallen in love with her captor? For eight long years prior to wedding Hector, she had been a royal hostage at Priam's court, forced to sacrifice her freedom to pay for her father's foolish treason. Misguided by greed, Eëtion had aided and abetted the coastal pirates that harassed and plundered Priam's trading ships, his percentage of their profits a strong incentive to allow them to hide in the many coves and inlets on the southern coast of his kingdom. Priam had demanded insurance that he would never again disobey, and so Eëtion had sent his youngest child to Troy, a prisoner to be released at Priam's pleasure. An advantageous union with a son of King Mesthles of Maeonia had to be forsaken – a fitting punishment, Priam said, for a vassal king who deserved to suffer a little robbery himself. Andromache's loneliness in a land of strangers had lasted for several long years, but the unexpected happened when she found herself falling in love with her captor's kind and peerless warrior son and heir. A love that, to her boundless joy, Hector returned in greater measure than she could have imagined.

No, she could not condemn Briseis.

She gave the girl a final reassuring embrace and looked over at Paris. The youth was visibly weary and worn. The quiver on his back was empty and Paris always kept it filled. He had spent them on many Greeks, his aim being so true that she was confident not a one had been wasted.

"Thank the gods you found her," she told him. "We were separated in the confusion. Where was she?"

Paris shifted in discomfort and cast a doubtful glance at Briseis, still huddled in Andromache's arms. When Helen caressed his brow and threw her arms about him in wild relief at his safety, he seized on the distraction and returned the embrace, moving away from his brother's widow and his cousin.

Andromache closed her eyes and rested her cheek on Briseis' curls. Her hair smelled of smoke and char. She and Paris must have fled with the fires licking at their heels. Knowing Briseis, she would have lingered over the corpse of her Greek lover as the embers rained around her. It was something that she herself had been denied and the thought of it burned her heart. Helplessly, she had watched Hector cruelly borne away through the rocks and sand to mingle with the dust from Achilles' chariot wheels, mutilated in his own native land. When she had finally been able to touch her husband again, as he was borne reverently into Priam's palace by the Apollonian Guard, he was but a shade of what he had been at their final farewell, his entire body debased at the hands of Achilles, the Myrmidon monster.

Andromache shrugged off these gathering feelings, knowing they could serve no purpose now. Future, not past. She sensed that if Hector could speak, he would urge her onward, just as Paris was now doing to the fugitives. One asked him if he would not take some rest himself, but Paris vehemently declined. Men and boys, women and children were rising to their feet, prepared to follow their prince. Andromache felt a weight lift from her shoulders at the sight of him taking command, though she did not have as much confidence in Hector's brother as she wished. Seeing Helen by his side was a constant reminder of his unpredictability and infuriating tendencies.

"Briseis, we must leave now," she said, soft yet insistent. "All of us need to walk fast and sure."

Without a word, Briseis pulled away from her and walked listlessly in the same direction as the others. Andromache watched her sadly, Briseis' grief pricking her own. She gestured to Iasemi and the girl hurried over, Astyanax bouncing against her chest from his snug position in the sling.

"Iasemi," she said, "I hope you have more strength within you than what I can see."

"Why is that, my princess?" the girl asked, puzzled.

"Because it seems we now have two we must care for."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The first night was a test of endurance that Andromache feared she would fail one hundred times over. In later years and times of trouble, she would sometimes recall it with regret that she had not succumbed and been left by the wayside. In moments of bliss, she would be grateful that the Fates had spared her and put their shears aside. Yet as the hours wore on during that first night, Andromache felt she was being tested in body the same way Hector's death had challenged her spirit.

To the south of the door of the secret tunnel lay a fordable area of the Scamander, and to this Paris led them. Most of the Greeks, flocking to the feast that was Troy, would be on the northern side of the river, leaving the southern region relatively safe to navigate. The invaders had overrun surrounding towns in the early months of the siege to fuel the hunger in their bellies and the greed in their hearts, but Agamemnon's will to lay Troy to waste had quickly drawn them away. Passage in these parts would be possible and assistance from the ravaged survivors of these towns hopefully forthcoming.

Were it Spring, the rains would have made crossing impossible, but the harsh and dry season of summer had lowered the waters. Children were hoisted onto shoulders or clasped their bearers around the neck, and babies were held overhead like offerings to the sky. Everyone reached the other shore wet and bedraggled, but heartened by the knowledge that yet more distance lay between them and their pursuers, should the Achaeans give chase.

Paris allowed them to rest briefly while he kept watch in the direction they had come, and Andromache seized upon this opportunity to take the bundle from Iasemi's back and retrieve the plain garments she had obtained for escape. She looked down at her soaked dress, a gown of fine blue linen shot through with the thinnest of gold threads, and knew she must lay it aside – bury it, or sink it in the river. Until she was in a place of absolute safety, she could not be that which she was. The jewels and gold that were tucked away in Astyanax's swaddling were dangerous betrayal enough, but she could not reinforce any suspicion by her own appearance. Of all the fugitives, she, Iasemi, Briseis, Paris, and Helen stood out as people of high station. She had not the clothes for all to shroud themselves in anonymity. Perhaps this care she took to conceal her identity would all be for naught. If they stayed together, the catch would be total and swift, not a one escaping. Eventually, it would be necessary to contemplate dividing and pursuing separate paths. She would have to put the idea to Paris and—

"—safest to divide and part?" she heard someone say.

Andromache looked up and saw the boy Aeneas standing beside Paris. His question had not been addressed to everyone, just the fugitive Trojan prince, but she was glad she had heard it, however fragmentary. So, hers was not the only mind that had contemplated that option…

She draped the white woolen dress around her and, one by one, undid the clasps that held her blue dress together and transferred them to her new garment. The robes of Hector's princess fell to the ground around her, leaving her garbed as plainly as any woman of unremarkable station. She noted that others had turned their heads upon seeing her actions, affording her some measure of privacy in this most open of places. It was welcome, but such deference had to cease in other things.

That was another matter to discuss with Paris. Her anger towards him had often ended any conversation before it could even begin, an uneasy relationship that had persisted ever since he had set foot on Troy's shores with the Spartan queen and avenging Greeks in tow. But that, too, had to cease. So many changes, so many demands…

"We'll continue as we are for some time yet," she heard Paris reply. When he said nothing further, she watched Aeneas turn away, his youthful face lined with doubt.

As he walked past her, she seized him gently by the arm. "What is it, Aeneas?" she asked. "What do you fear?"

"Nothing, Princess," he whispered, though he cast a furtive glance at Paris's back.

"Is it your father? Is he fading?"

Aeneas shook his head. "No, he is strong and I don't doubt that he will reach whatever destination we choose. But…" He paused in obvious hesitation.

"Speak freely with me, Aeneas," Andromache said. "Do not let anything stay you. Forget who I am because that will only betray us."

Aeneas nodded in solemn agreement. "I understand. I think I understand that more than others." As soon as he said it, he looked horrified that such words had passed his lips, knowing that it implied criticism of Paris, but Andromache suspected he was not truly ashamed he had done it. The boy had a pride and will that she could sense in the disapproving way he had spoken.

Paris turned at the sound of their hushed conversation, and Andromache was uncertain if he had heard Aeneas' muttered comment. He looked on in barely-concealed suspicion when he saw whom the boy was talking to. Andromache was not desirous of deepening Paris's distrust, so she whispered an invitation to talk with her later and she advanced towards her brother-in-law, hoping that she could allay any fears he might have and gather some idea of what his mind held.

She drew up beside him and it was several prolonged seconds before the silence was broken. "Whom would you have lead us?" he asked. "Would you have it be me?" Though he audibly struggled to sound strong, the uncertainty in his tone was too obvious to ignore.

"I would have it be he who could lead," she said, "and that doesn't preclude you." Before he could reply, she hurried on. "Paris, we have to step more carefully than any of us have ever done, even those of us who have always been cautious. You believe I think you a fool, and so I did. But you can do this, Paris. You can bring us to the other side of whatever obstructions we have before us. But—" she turned, put both hands on his shoulders, and gave him a small shake "—a leader has to look at all possibilities, and I don't want you to pursue one vision at the expense of all others." She let her hands fall. "Now, please tell me what you are planning. Are we to divide and take separate paths?"

"Did Aeneas tell you what he wishes to do?"

"It seems he and I are of one mind. Just as I was thinking it, he was saying so to you. But we are to remain together?"

"For some time."

"How long?" The question was spoken quietly, but her insistence on an answer was clear.

Paris was silent, but Andromache waited patiently until he overcame whatever annoyance or reluctance refrained him from answering. "Until it seems safe to part company." When Andromache sighed, Paris looked about in frustrated despair. "Believe me, Sister, no one laments my lack of kingly knowledge at this moment more than I! If you feel that you can lead us more wisely, then I may be the first among us to agree."

Andromache did not let his outburst, hushed as it was, to infect her with similar emotion. "You must be one leader of several, Paris. Yes, we may stay together for some time yet, but come dawn, a large cluster of twenty people will say exactly who we are – a group of fleeing Trojans. There is no other conceivable reason why so many weary people would be staggering about blindly. Priam's house will have been counted. I will not be there. Nor will Astyanax. You and Briseis, too. And what of Helen? Though Agamemnon cared more for our gold and land than any wife of his brother, he will see that she is nowhere to be found within Troy."

"He won't see her absence because he's dead," Paris told her. "Briseis sent him to Charon with a blade in his neck."

This revelation silenced her, but only briefly. Then it was not simply Achilles' death that had rendered Briseis so silent. "If not Agamemnon, then another," she persisted. "Her face is all too well-known to every Achaean, and I would wager that more than a few of them would see her return to captivity as a reward in itself." Paris's eyes glinted in anger, but Andromache would not retreat. "They see her as a cause of suffering for their own precious hides," she went on. "Troy has fallen, but no Helen can be found. Were I a Greek, my anger would know no bounds. And," she added, "were I a Greek with a desire to cater favor with any one of those repugnant kings, I would set out to find her." She lowered her voice even further. "Paris, you have to understand what I'm saying!"

"So you suggest we cast Helen aside, to save _our_ own precious hides?" he retorted. "Perhaps I hear you wrongly, but your meaning could not be more clear."

"No, Paris," she replied, patience wearing thin, "but this is what I _do_ mean. Upon first sight of this group, we'll be caught in a net, and all they will have to do is sort the large fish from the minnows. And that, dear brother-in-law, will not be hard to do when some are dressed in fine armor and linen and others wear the garb of plain folk." She brought her hands to her ears, removed the gold baubles from her lobes and clenched them tightly in her fist. "But more to the point is that we will _all_ be caught in one easy, swift action."

Paris looked down at her dress, noticing its lack of style and wealth for the first time. "Then that is your plan? To divide into small, vulnerable numbers and vanish into the landscape?"

"That is it exactly," she said. "Vulnerable numbers, yes, but at least with some chance of vanishing, as you say. I am willing to risk that, if it means that when an enemy sees me, they might give me a bored glance and I slip past them. And if I am caught, then only those few with me will suffer capture as well." She waited to see what effect her words were having, and when she believed he showed some signs of acceptance, she pressed onward with a final plea. "Paris, I will not have these innocents collected and sent into slavery to the far reaches of that barbarian land simply because they had the misfortune to be in our miserable company."

"Then Priam's house should take one path, and the others another," he mused, seeming to grasp this thought for the first time. Though he spoke it, he did not seem entirely convinced of its merit.

"Is that what Aeneas suggested?" Andromache asked him.

"More or less, but he is young and his intent seems to be that he and his father, as well as a few others, leave the rest and find whatever fate awaits them. He said he thought that land on the far reaches of the sea would be safely distant from any further ambitions the Achaean kings might have."

"I say let him do it. Our problem has begun to solve itself. He has Priam's sword and the will to strike out on his own."

"But his father is old and wounded," Paris continued stubbornly, "and the boy is young and rash to suggest—"

Andromache was unable to smother the burst of laughter that erupted from her. She quickly regained her composure, but could not wipe the smile from her lips. "Paris, you're uneasy about someone's recklessness?" she asked incredulously. He looked shamefaced at what he obviously believed was a rebuke, but Andromache shook her head. "That is no insult, dear brother-in-law. Truly. That you can recognize it in others means you have some sense of how dangerous it can be." _At last,_ she thought. "But I do not begrudge that gift of Priam's sword to him. A gift that you bestowed." She meant this final remark to be pointed, and Paris recognized it as such.

"Andromache," Paris said, "I gave him that sword, yes, though now I could not tell you why."

"Then perhaps I can."

"No, you needn't tell me. I think I know."

"He reminds me somewhat of you," she went on, ignoring him, "and perhaps you thought or hoped he act as you would have. Venturing into the unknown with naught but a few items to call your own and a dream to direct you?"

Paris did not respond, content to leave the matter of his own past follies and careless adventures unexplored. Instead, he nodded decisively. "Until the dawn," he said. "We remain together until the sun rises, then each fate is our own."

Though Andromache knew that she had led Paris to this point, his willingness to proceed from it gladdened her in a small way and she returned to Iasemi and Astyanax, all the while wondering where the following night would find them.

* * *

The river had drenched them, the rocks stung and bit their feet through sandals and leather slippers, and the arid night air drove chill into their bones. Their strength and endurance continued to be tested without rest. 

Paris seemed intent on covering as much ground as possible before the coming dawn would force separation. They passed several farms – large huts and adjoining fields – but the land was scoured and the homes in disrepair or partially destroyed, so they continued onward after a brief search for any provisions that might have been spared or overlooked. But there were none. The Greeks had destroyed what they had not taken, and the unfortunates marched away to sell or be divided among the warriors, as were all spoils of war.

Briseis still walked alone, her steps quick because the pace of the others – and fear of being abandoned – forced her to summon strength and will long thought exhausted. But upon seeing yet more blackened remains that marred the strangely serene landscape, she stopped and stared at the ruins.

Andromache drew up beside her just as Briseis turned away from the sight with a shudder. "They did not burn Apollo's temple," she said, "but every priest was killed. I thought such impiety would bring wrath down upon them."

"It may yet," Andromache replied. "Not all who slew the priests found their own deaths while besieging Troy."

"But what god will avenge these luckless people?" she asked, turning to look once more upon the charred structure. "At least the temple had gold, but here…" She looked about in angry confusion. "At least they dealt out the same fate without regard or second thought! Quite even-handed of them!" She ran her hand across her face to wipe away any falling tears and let these bitter words vanish into the soft breeze that swept across the plain.

Though she did not speak it, Andromache knew that Briseis was thinking about Achilles, the sacker of cities. During the siege, Troy had heard of the successive fall of several cities within the Troad, Priam's immediate kingdom, and in neighboring states. Among them were Adramytium, Antandrus, and Lyrnessus – and Andromache's native city of Thebe, where her seven brothers and father were slain on the same day by the Myrmidon commander. When the cities were not enough to sate the thirsty swords of him and his mercenaries, the outlying towns and settlements had suffered the same ravaging as well. Tender he might have been, and the grief Briseis felt at his death was no doubt true and enduring, but tidings and tales of Achilles' slaughters were different from seeing the evidence before one's eyes, seeing the shells of homes where lives ended because of a man's willingness – nay, eagerness – to kill.

"He said I changed him," Briseis said, sniffing and looking at Andromache sadly. "He said I made him love instead of hate, but I don't think one person can change a man who loved to kill so much."

"If you touched his heart in any manner, it was something that had not been done before," Andromache told her. "If it led him to spare anyone, your affection was not wasted." It pained her to be so generous to one who had, in a single day, destroyed her entire family and left her with no one save Hector to love her, then had taken him, too. She wished she had not said it, even to soothe Briseis. The girl would overcome her grief, and in later years Achilles would be a passion to recall with pain, not joy.

"I begged him not to fight Hector," Briseis persisted. "If he loved me, he would not have done it."

Andromache put her arm around Briseis' shoulders and gathered her close. How strange. Her own words and thoughts before Hector's final fight had been the very same.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Day dawned, the sun a glorious red. Thin clouds hovered over the horizon, but none above. Unless that changed, everyone feared the heat would become unendurable, if not fatal. The cool night air clashed with the warmth, creating a double-edged sword of welcome respite for aching bones and a harbinger of the brutal day to come.

The sun was behind them, Paris leading them southwest towards the sea after following the Scamander south for several miles. Their meager provisions were already low, and Andromache had passed out the dates and figs she had packed until they were all gone. While some ate theirs quickly out of stabbing hunger, others followed her advice to put them under their tongue and let the flavor sustain them over a longer period. But there was little else to eat and stomachs were growling with more persistence.

On the banks of the river, they had encountered one standing settlement, a lone hut with wheat growing in the field, and while the others hid under the bluffs cut into the riverbank from countless years of spring floods, Paris sent Aeneas and another to the man's door with some coins to buy some food. He ordered them to reveal nothing about their party to provoke suspicion. When they returned to where the others hid, Aeneas handed the full purse back to Paris and set a modest sack of goods on the ground with a visible air of triumph.

Paris hefted the small purse. "You spent not a coin, you say?" he asked in disbelief. "Did you charm the old man into giving all this to you?"

Aeneas tried not to look smug, but he failed and Andromache could see Paris's dislike and distrust resurfacing. She saw the prince's gaze drift down to the sword that peered out from the folds of Aeneas' cloak and looked on in tense curiosity as Paris smiled, his lips curving not gently but instead with harsh delight at some as yet invisible triumph. "If you are to be worthy of that sword," Paris said, his tone falsely amicable, "I think the gods require more than a sack of free food."

The boy's pleasure at his successful foray faded quickly. His jaw hardened and his lips pressed together tightly in suppressed anger. He did not retort, whether out of deference or lack of a fitting reply, Andromache did not know. However, she did recall her doubts about Paris the previous night and regretted that she had been correct in entertaining them. Paris would be an incessant curse unless he truly changed these attitudes and ways, but even the destruction of his city had not rid him of these infuriating games he delighted in playing. For someone who could claim no real greatness beyond the blood that happened to flow through his veins, the boy seemed intent on pretending he possessed it. Andromache leashed her tongue and hoped that what the burning of Troy could not accomplish in Paris, enforced hardship and seeking asylum throughout the known region might.

Her attention was turned to the scent of food wafting from the sack. Aeneas was kneeling on the ground and he withdrew a moderate cut of salted meat and two small bricks of cheese. From her position, Andromache sniffed and decided that both came from a goat. Aeneas upended the sack and out rolled a dozen pieces of fruit, some dented and overripe, but edible all the same. The fugitives who had waited so patiently now crept forward at the sight of such a modest feast, bellies growling after having mercilessly marched at the insistence of their prince.

Andromache stepped back to allow others to go before her. Though she felt pangs of hunger, she had means to obtain whatever she might need to survive – the small treasury that remained nestled against her son. The others…they were modest artisans, nursemaids, minor nobles within Priam's court. What they had had the wits to bring with them in the chaos would need to last for a very long journey. If she, Paris, Helen, and Briseis remained together, they would find survival somewhat easier, in terms of money and tradable goods.

Still, some begged her to go before them and take not only her share, but theirs as well. "The little king needs it more than we do," said one. Andromache refused politely and the relief in their eyes was something they could not disguise. She pitied them, and felt discomfort at their innate reaction to deny themselves pleasure in preference of seeing it given to their lords. She would not take advantage of it.

Instead, she left them and relieved Iasemi of Astyanax so that the girl could collect her share of the spoils and eat. Even before the servant could protest that her mistress take her food, Andromache hushed her with a warning glance. Iasemi turned away obediently and went to take her place alongside the others, waiting for Aeneas to carve off a strip of meat and give her a portion of a mealy apple.

Astyanax fussed quietly and Andromache took a seat beside Briseis on the small sandy riverbank. She removed her sandals and plunged her aching and burning feet into the shallow water. Holding Astyanax against her shoulder, she stroked his back. She had fed him during the night, never slackening her pace as she did so. That he had not let the jarring motions deter him from feasting was a cause of wonder and it had provided her with some much-needed distraction after her discussion with Paris.

Briseis seemed to have taken no notice of her presence, instead continuing to stare into the water that flowed before them, her arms wrapped tightly around her bent knees. "Briseis, you must eat," she said. "I have only a few dates left."

The girl shook her head. "Not hungry," she said wearily.

Andromache sighed and absently soothed her son, her eyes never leaving Aeneas as he went about the fair apportioning of the farmer's generosity. Though he was young and doubtlessly rash in his way, he impressed her with his command, his willingness to take it upon himself to provide for those suffering around him. She watched him dispense the food with encouraging words and smiles, and her hope rose when he took the final portion and walked over to where she and Briseis sat. He knelt down before the silent girl and held out his hand, on which rested a piece of meat and cheese.

"Here," he said. "Please take these."

Briseis shifted and stared at the offering in apathy. "No, you eat it," she said.

"I've already had my share." He extended his hand further. "Please."

Andromache knew he lied, but Briseis had paid no attention to the distribution of the food and had no way of knowing that he was offering her the last of it. "Aeneas…" she began quietly.

The young man looked at her and his eyes begged her to be silent, though he would not let such a command pass his lips. When Andromache let her gaze fall in assent, he returned to Briseis. "Please," he insisted, then paused, as though searching for something that might persuade her. "There are wondrous places we can flee to," he whispered eagerly, "but we have to be strong to do it." His hand inched forward.

Briseis' eyes left the food and settled on the boy's face, curiosity obviously piqued by his relentless pleas. Her hand hovered over the food in silent contemplation before settling on the meat. "Wondrous places, you say?" she asked, taking it. "Such as?"

Aeneas smiled at her interest, even if Andromache thought the girl had sounded skeptical. "The northern lands near Egypt, perhaps, if the Pharaoh allows us to settle," he said. "They say men have created mountains of stone to house their dead kings. Mountains!" Aeneas' voice was infused with excitement for sights unseen. "And they send their dead into the next world with their insides removed and their bodies wrapped tightly in linen."

Briseis stopped chewing and looked down at the strip of meat in her hand. As she turned from the food with an expression of sudden nausea, Andromache laid a hand on her shoulder and smiled. "It is a tidy process, from what I hear," she said.

"Some comfort that is," Briseis replied, her eyes filling with regret. "I was enjoying that meat."

Andromache's smile broadened, even if Briseis had meant no humor in her remark. This brief surge of cheer subsided upon seeing Aeneas hungrily eyeing the cheese he still held for Briseis. "You must eat yourself, Aeneas," she said. "If you're to lead others, you can't afford weakness."

"You're leaving us?" Briseis asked, alarmed.

"Yes," he replied, nibbling at one of the pieces of cheese. "Prince Paris has allowed it, but whoever comes with my father and I will have a day to rest. I wish to travel by night rather than day."

Andromache nodded. "Very wise. And you have how many willing to leave with you?"

"Seven…eight, there are a couple others uncertain about trusting their luck on any path I choose, but I don't blame them for their doubts. I have confidence enough to spare, I should hope." He chewed the last of the cheese and regarded Briseis curiously. "Would you wish to join us?"

Briseis straightened from her huddled posture. "Is there an alternative?" she asked. "No matter where we go, we'll all be fugitives without a country." She turned to Andromache. "Where will you be going?"

"I wish I knew," Andromache replied with a shrug. "I began discussion with Paris last night, but…I haven't spoken with him yet this morning." From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a small group taking their leave of Paris, belongings slung over shoulders, and scaling over the shallow riverbank.

Aeneas followed her gaze. "It seems those uncertain ones decided to forego the pleasure of accompanying me," he remarked. He popped the other piece of cheese into his mouth and stood to watch them leave. "They're staying on the South Road, but maybe they'll turn west or east." He knelt again before Briseis and smiled. "The loss is theirs, right?"

"If you say so." Briseis returned her attention to the meat she still held and contemplated it briefly, no doubt thoughts of dead pharaohs being prepared for burial nagging at her, before putting the rest in her mouth. Her expression as she did so was one of muted relish.

"I regret you will not be among us," Andromache told him. "Though I suspect that your father is the esteemed one to prompt others to follow your path, your spirit would do much to buoy ours and our purpose."

"Is that what you wished to speak to me about last night when I came away from Prince Paris?" he asked. "My plans?"

"Among other things. Paris told me you intend to cross the sea."

Aeneas nodded. "I never want to see another Greek again and I hope to settle on a shore they'll never reach."

"My thoughts precisely," she agreed grimly.

Aeneas' eyes brightened. "Would you come with us, Princess?"

"Remember, Aeneas, I am no longer royal or anything approaching it," she reminded him gently. She shook her head. "No, I dare not. I told Paris last night that I would not have others in my company suffer if we were caught. The price would be death or slavery."

"I would take that chance, to have you with us." His eyes went to Astyanax. "You and our king."

Andromache smiled at this, but she shook her head again, this time more firmly. "No, Aeneas. It's with Paris we must go, until our paths further part, if that is the gods' will."

"Paris."

Andromache turned to Briseis and was startled to see the girl looking at her with dread in her red-rimmed eyes. "What is it?"

"That is who we'll follow?" Briseis asked, her tone becoming increasingly sharper with every word.

Andromache found herself rendered speechless at the simmering ire and bile beneath Briseis' quiet surface. "Well, yes," she said, unable to think of a more complex response.

"He has earned such a task?" Briseis further demanded. "And just where will he lead us?"

Shifting Astyanax to her other shoulder, she reached out her hand and laid it on Briseis' arm. She looked at Aeneas and whispered, "Leave us, please."

The boy rose and turned away with a worried frown. Andromache watched him walk towards his father and the several souls who had cast their lot with his. After a few inaudible words, some of them lay down on the sandy riverbank, apparently beginning that day of rest Aeneas had mentioned was in store for his followers.

When she returned her attention to Briseis, she saw that the girl had been observing the same scene as she. "What is it?" she asked again. "Paris killed Achilles, didn't he?" Briseis nodded. "And is that what has lowered him in your eyes?"

"Did it raise him in yours?"

Those words struck Andromache with the force of a well-aimed blow, hurting her with its unexpectedness. "What have I done to make you speak like this to me?" she asked, wishing her voice had not become so thin by Briseis' accusation. Though she hoped her hurt would be obvious, she feared Briseis would see any weakness as guilt.

Briseis' response was to bend her forehead to her knees, burying her face in the folds of her gown. "I can't go with him, Andromache," she moaned, unshed tears rasping in her throat. "I can't bear to look at his face."

"No more than he can bear looking at yours," Andromache said, slowly recovering from the girl's earlier lash. "He has avoided you since he brought you through the tunnel to safety." Briseis didn't respond to this deliberate mention of her rescue, made no indication that she even heard it. Andromache, feeling uncomfortable in the silence, finished, "We have little choice at this point other than to follow."

"Not true." Briseis raised her head, sniffed, and turned to look at Aeneas and his small gathering.

"No, I can't let you go on that path," Andromache said firmly as she realized Briseis' meaning. Without waiting for the girl to protest, if that was her intention, she continued. "A young boy and an old man I trust to lead themselves, but not—" She shook Briseis' arm when the girl seemed ready to dismiss her. "—but not Hector's cousin!" she finished emphatically. "Briseis, my husband would see you safe. Since he is not here to protect you himself, then he would give that task to me."

Briseis had listened to her plea in respectful silence after realizing that Andromache would have her say, but when that was done she looked at Andromache levelly. "No, I simply can't. He is a curse, Andromache. You have heard the tales and rumors about him. For years it has been whispered and bandied about that he carries the anger of the gods with him."

Andromache's eyes narrowed in perplexed concern. "Whom have you been listening to?" she demanded. "The superstitious mutterings of unhappy people? Those who don't dare blame the gods find another to take their place. He is your cousin, your kin! I don't share his blood and yet even I have a more charitable view of him. His follies are of his own making, not some mark of ill favor from the gods!"

"But you have heard the stories, and he brought about the destruction of Troy and thousands of men, women, and children by one act alone." Briseis' eyes sought out the figure of her cousin and her jaw hardened as they looked upon him and the fair woman that sat by his side. "Go with him, Andromache, but I pray the gods will watch over you."

Astyanax began to fuss quietly, as though he sensed the anger and emotions swirling around him. Briseis stared at the baby briefly before summoning a weak smile for Andromache's benefit. "You have him to look after," she whispered. "You have Iasemi entrusted to you. You will need to see to your own safety. I can't ask you to shoulder me, another burden."

"But you wouldn't be!" Andromache protested. "Please, Briseis! See the sense of what I'm saying!"

Briseis rose to her feet in one fluid motion. Her fists clenched several times as she stared ahead of her at what Andromache deemed was nothing in particular. "If Priam hadn't taken me back to Troy the night he claimed Hector's body," she said, "I would have crossed the sea, as either Achilles' or another's, if Achilles was destined to die here." She looked down at the sand beneath her feet and smiled. "I would have walked with him, wherever he took me. But without him, I will find my own way." She held out her hand and Andromache took it falteringly, knowing that despite this contact, Briseis was drifting even further away.

"Farewell, Andromache."

Andromache squeezed the girl's fingers tightly. "I'll see you again, Briseis," she whispered.

The corner of Briseis' mouth quirked into a soft smile. It was apparent that she didn't quite believe Andromache's words, but she nodded gently. "Entirely possible," she murmured. "Perhaps it is my priestess teachings, fraught with superstition as they were, but it's possible that the gods aren't finished with us yet."

Andromache forced herself to smile and share the girl's humor. "I'll trust the priestess's judgment in this."

"I'd rather you trust in your own," Briseis said. With that, she turned and walked straightway towards Aeneas, who leaped to his feet upon seeing her approach, his smile broad and genuinely pleased. She bent her head as they exchanged several words, none of which Andromache could hear. Then Briseis retreated to a small patch of shade against the bluff, sat down and wrapped her arms around her knees to patiently wait for Aeneas' command to depart.

Andromache turned away, glad that Astyanax was there, yet again, to divert her. She didn't feel she could afford to look at Briseis again. One by one, she was being left behind.

"But not you," she whispered, bringing Astyanax to her chest and holding him tightly. "Not you, little king."

* * *

**Good? Bad? Please review!**  



	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Briseis was gone, but though no one spoke of her, her absence and fate were on more minds than just hers. Or so Andromache believed.

Paris' back was stiff and straight, as though doggedly bearing something only he could see. His pride had suffered a blow upon their departure from the riverbank when Aeneas held the Sword of Troy out to him, offering to return it. Honor would not allow him to accept it, for it had been a gift, and his Pride refused to beggar itself before this mere boy and take it with obvious gratitude, an emotion Andromache knew Paris was not confident he could entirely smother. She had seen Paris eye the sword with a measure of reluctant greed, his fingers curling ever so slightly at his side, as though yearning to take the hilt in hand once more. The young man had always found it difficult to ignore a pretty treasure. Paris' refusal was curtly gracious and leave had been abruptly taken of Aeneas and his followers.

Helen, upon discovering that Briseis was remaining behind, made a final effort to dissuade her, but Andromache watched the exchange from a discreet distance and saw Briseis' determination hardening into a bed of rock with every plea from Paris' wife. She would not be pushed, that much was clear, and Andromache wondered if Hector's young cousin had ever been pliable or cowering, even when a prisoner in the enemy camp. Though Briseis had revealed little about her captivity, much about Achilles was known to all – Greeks and Trojans alike – and the Myrmidon warrior was reputed to admire challenges and disdain weakness. And he had not disdained Briseis.

Her attempts failed, Helen had immediately returned to the one she never ceased to affect, he who had always responded to her every word, gesture, or expression. The two of them, Andromache thought, could manipulate each other in a way that even jaded court schemers would envy. They did it effortlessly, perhaps even ignorantly, unaware of the power they held over the other. Or maybe, she thought, both believed they were the one in control.

It had been three days since the parting of the ways, three days of endless marching and long periods of silence that set thoughts churning and multiplying in the absence of normal conversation and surroundings. Andromache had tried to destroy the barrier between her and Iasemi, but the girl was proving to be stubborn in her adherence to subservience and Andromache finally put aside all attempts for the time being.

This trend of quiet thinking had intensified when two more travelers had, on the second day, decided to seek shelter in the immediate region and proceed no further. Paris had let them go, saying he only envied them their ability to remain on this shore. "I won't take you from your homeland," he said, "and, gods willing, I will return here one day."

Like a fever, it took them one by one – the fugitives falling to the side to pursue paths that had been revealed to them in the depths of sleep, or simply succumbing to exhaustion and the inability to continue flight – until, with frightening ease, the last blood of Priam's house found themselves alone.

"Well, it's now as you wanted it," Paris said that night as he sat down cross-legged beside the small fire he had just kindled. "Troy's royals wandering in our diminished glory."

Helen rested a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Paris…" she warned gently, having sensed the burgeoning spite in his voice. When he seemed to settle beneath her touch, she added, "Andromache has much to consider, as do you. No one should expect to see eye to eye on it all."

"Yes, of course," Paris murmured, casting his wife an apologetic glance. He ventured an uncomfortable look in Andromache's direction and his frame seemed to slacken even more upon seeing her sitting there, with Astyanax held tightly in her arms. His lips curved slightly as he regarded the baby.

"My little nephew…he is doing well?" he asked.

Andromache nodded and laid one finger across Astyanax's open palm, smiling in pride as the baby's small digits closed around it tightly. "He's strong, even after all the miles I've bounced him over." She waved her hand and continued to let her son crush her finger in his infant grip as she turned her attention to Paris. "He doesn't seem tired," she said, "but perhaps that is surface appearances. As for myself, I'm not certain I can continue this pace much longer."

"We haven't put enough distance between us and Troy," Paris countered. "At least not yet." He picked up his bow from where it had been laying on the ground beside where he sat and set it across his thighs, as though he expected a wandering Achaean to attack them. "But I'm not unsympathetic, Andromache."

"Neither am I," Helen insisted, reaching over and taking Andromache's free hand. "I will carry Astyanax whenever you wish it."

Andromache nodded, though she did not feel as relieved as she wanted to at this gesture. What she desired most of all was a sound rest of two days – from dusk to dawn twice over. All that day her legs had been obeying her will, unfeeling on their own but knowing they had to move because it was fatal to stop. Just moments before when she had removed her sandals, she noticed for the first time how blistered and broken her feet were, aware of blood caking the grime to her skin. There had been little time or energy to tend to such matters, the desire to continuing fleeing as far from Troy as possible pushing them ever onward, step by painful step.

"I will welcome your aid, Helen," she replied, though as she spoke, she turned and delivered Astyanax into Iasemi's arms. On very few occasions had Helen ever carried Astyanax, partly due to Helen's own lack of interest and the rest dictated by Andromache's unshakeable distrust and disgust of the Spartan queen. Just as she had done while still in Troy, Andromache smiled but did not feel the warmth spreading beyond her lips. Her eyes had been ever watchful and wary when speaking with the beautiful adulteress, from the day Hector and Paris had arrived with her up to this very moment.

Helen withdrew her hand and settled back, her brow furrowed and the corners of her mouth dropping in an uncertain frown. Her expression indicated that she suspected she had been rebuffed, once again, just as Briseis had done days earlier. Though she was not of Trojan royal blood, her veins flowed with privilege and she visibly resented this shunting aside.

Paris observed this with regret. He gestured at all of them as they sat around the fire. "Not only are we alone, here we sit, two camps set squarely opposite one another. Isn't that so?" he asked. "We both possess somewhat equal seniority, as I see it. You with Astyanax, and I as Priam's son. The only question is who will eventually hold sway."

"Hold sway?" Andromache repeated, softly incredulous. "This is no battle among animals over a carcass, Paris."

"Perhaps not, dear sister, but I've made my intentions clear that we will continue until we've reached safety, and safety won't exist for us as long as we remain on this soil. Yet," he continued, his voice becoming increasingly agitated, "your own plans are always at cross-purposes with mine. I don't know whether you design it so, or if it's purely happenstance."

"It's never been my intent to contradict you out of spite, Paris," Andromache replied. "But as you're so intent on speaking plainly regardless of feelings, I'll reciprocate." She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "When you came to Troy from Mount Ida, I embraced you for Hector's sake though I cared nothing for you," she began, "but there _have_ been times when I was genuinely fond of you. Damning praise, I know, but that's the truth of it."

"Then let me lead what remains of us," he said. "Your counsel has brought us to this juncture, so allow me to proceed from where we are. Though," he added reproachfully, "I'm very certain that not even you anticipated that we would be _so _alone, as we are now. Our few stragglers quickly absented themselves at the first chance they could. Should we ever be captured, no other undeserving subject will have to endure punishment by keeping our company. That is the way you wanted it, I believe."

Iasemi shifted as Paris said those words and busied herself with Astyanax, letting him play with her finger as he had done with his mother only moments earlier.

Andromache glanced at her handmaiden and wished the girl had left with any one of the others when the opportunities had presented themselves. Now her lot was cast with theirs, for good or ill. She would not send Iasemi off on her own – the poor girl would suffer from one of any number of fates. As one of the privileged personal servants of the royal family, she had, in many ways, become as dependent on the service of others as Andromache, Paris, and Helen had. Only the lowliest of slaves had no other caste beneath them to order about.

Hector's widow stared silently at Paris before shifting her gaze to Helen. "So both of you are in agreement about this? You have discussed and decided?"

Helen seemed uncertain at first, looking askance at her husband, but she then gave a firm nod. "We have."

Andromache swallowed. "Well, then, if you want this 'command', however unofficial it may be," she told him, "then I'll not deny you. The importance of it matters not to me. I only request that we have respite."

"Tomorrow night and the day after," he said immediately. "One more day from Troy is all I demand."

Andromache's shoulders slumped. "Very well, Paris."

This uneasy agreement created a pall that seemed to dim the light of the small fire, though the flames leaped and sparked as it consumed the dry deadwood and sent small embers dancing into the air.

Andromache clasped her knees in her palms and rubbed them in impotent frustration. She hadn't sought any sort of command, didn't think that one needed to exist. That first night, the night Troy had burned, she had only wanted Paris to take some course of action, make the one pressing decision between staying together or dividing, fleeing to the mountains or the shore. The Sword of Troy, an irreproachable mark of royal rank, was now in the hands of another, and all that Paris possessed were his blood and pride, intangible things the boy was wielding with only the roughest of skills. Were they actual weapons, the strikes would be brutally delivered without thought of lessening the pain, though not necessarily meant to kill. Commanding attention and obedience seemed sufficient.

Andromache turned to Iasemi. "Rest now," she said. "We shall lay Astyanax between us."

The girl nodded mutely and inched backwards from the fire so that she would be in no danger from making unintentional contact with it in the stupor of sleep. Tugging her cloak around her and Astyanax, she lay on her side with her back to the fire.

"Paris…Helen," Andromache said, nodding to each in turn in the manner of polite leave-taking. Without another word, she retreated to join Iasemi and put the dwindling supply bag under her head for some comfort and bid Iasemi do likewise.

"Mistress," the girl whispered, shifting Astyanax to a softer portion of the extremely crude bedding, "will we have ever gone far enough?"

Andromache sighed. "I'm certain he'll know when we've reached it, Iasemi," she said, and then smiled. "'Mistress'…it's not so hard to say, is it?"

"No, Mistress," Iasemi dutifully replied with an embarrassed smile. "It is indeed quite easy, once I remember."

"I have not yet had the presence of mind to devise a suitably false name, but you must never treat me better than a tradesman's wife. I want there to be no deference as you are accustomed to." She held up hands for the girl to inspect. "I may have to work on roughening these up somewhat if I'm to pass any inspection. The wife of a fishmonger or carpenter with smooth hands will arouse suspicion within minutes."

"If you're devising any strategy, dear sister," came Paris's voice, "don't keep it to yourself."

Andromache and Iasemi exchanged silent looks, the girl visibly troubled at the friction that was fast developing around her, and Andromache clenching her teeth in irritation.

"We're merely exchanging ideas about the matter of disguise," she ground out. "That will help neither you nor Helen. The most beautiful woman in the world and the most hated man in all of Greece—" Andromache paused only briefly as those acidic words leaped from her tongue, not hesitating from shame or fear that she had said them, but to savor them in satisfaction "—are difficult things to mask, even should you discard your armor. It will require far more wits than what I possess to answer that problem. Good night, Paris!"

She closed her eyes and placed a hand possessively across Astyanax's stomach, sighing audibly at the contact.

Unseen by her was Iasemi, who bent her head to Astyanax's curly crown of hair and mouthed a silent prayer to Hermes to quickly deliver them on a short and happy path.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The sun had reached the height of day and no breeze, warm of cool, alleviated the stifling air that blanketed the dry and dusty terrain. Andromache cursed her incuriosity as a child and young wife. Never had she really taken excursions beyond the narrow route from Thebe, her birth city, to Troy. Both cities had been the blooms that had lured the bees to them. The interest had not been reciprocated, the folk of Troy of Thebe declining to rush to the hinterlands in order to feast their eyes on the mud huts, livestock, and rustic manners of the locals.

So with every step she took, every twinge and stabbing pain in her feet and sore legs, she felt new respect for those who had lived in such conditions - walking from settlement to settlement or bumping over roads in oxcart or laboring in this infernal heat so that they might feed themselves and relinquish the largest portion of it to Priam's tax collectors.

Very few words had passed between Andromache and Paris and Helen since the previous night. Ad day dawned, and a small game bird that Paris had captured in its nest roasted on the remaining coals, conversation was limited to nods and murmurs of greeting.

Andromache envied Iasemi her station, which carried with it the expectation that she would never speak except to acknowledge an order, or announce when all in readiness. She, on the other hand, must continue to speak to them, continue as though she was in accord with their actions, and continue to pretend that her heart had not been turning to stone against the lustful pair since their arrival. Even with Hector gone, with the families of her blood and her marriage all slaughtered or captured, and with naught but a baby and a slave, she could not drop the pitiful façade of tolerance. It had to remain in place, just as it had for many long and weary months.

The small portion of meat she had eaten had worn off long since, and she clutched Astyanax tighter to her stomach to suppress the long and low growl that rippled through it. Iasemi stumbled along beside her, her eyes staring dully upon the ground while her arms swung loose at her sides. The slave's hair had come undone from the simple style that was customary, and it now hung in wet, sweaty hanks that clung to her cheeks and neck. Her lips were parted, and hoarse, ragged breaths whistled between them. Her full lower lip had cracked and she hadn't even licked away the blood. A dark red stripe had dried where it bled. Though she didn't have a looking glass with her, Andromache knew that she probably looked no better.

Before them in the distance was a slight incline, and to the left of it loomed solid rock, or scattered boulders. Andromache wasn't sure which. She squinted and tried to peer as best she could, but the harsh sun distorted her vision and soon everything began to swim and be cloudy. One thing she was certain she had seen was shade. Shade from the looming rocks and, if she weren't mistaken, from trees that sprouted nearby. That meant there was some water to sustain them. Even if it was only a little stagnant pool and undrinkable, she would splash the water all over herself and dip Astyanax into it.

Before she could say anything to Paris, he turned from his position at the head of their straggling procession and gestured towards the rocks and trees. "Andromache, you'll be receiving the rest you so long for," he said. "We shall stay there for the rest of the day and tonight."

From beside Andromache, Iasemi raised her head and looked upon the objects in the distance with joy, though the only animated thing about her was the sparking of interest in her eyes. "Mistress, we're to rest?" Unspoken was the word 'finally,' but she might as well have said it. It loomed in Andromache's mind just as large.

Helen reached out a hand and gripped her husband's arm, stopping him in his tracks. "Paris, do you smell it?" She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her head was thrown back slightly and her damp curls swayed along her waist as she searched the air.

Andromache drew up behind them and heard Helen ask of her husband again if he knew where they were. When the prince shook his head, Helen turned to him and smiled broadly. "That, dear husband, is the unmistakable scent of the sea. We have reached the shore! Can't you smell it rolling down that hill?"

Paris couldn't mask his skepticism, but when Andromache tentatively sniffed and a dawning certainty smoothed her features, he grasped Helen around the wrist and lurched forward. Falling in behind them was Andromache and Iasemi, the slave staggering in near desperation to keep apace with her mistress.

They scrambled over the rocks and plowed through the sand of the incline, catching themselves as they stumbled and propelling themselves onwards with no thought of the grace or royal bearing that had been taught them. Until now, Andromache hadn't realized just how senseless it all had been, the seemingly endless years of learning ceremony and protocol that had no meaning when the primal need for water and survival overtook all thought and desire.

They neared the knoll and practically threw themselves over it with an abandon that spoke of an inner fear that Hades would snatch them away only a few steps short of basking in the paradise of water. Andromache teetered on unsteady legs, both of her arms locked tightly around Astyanax, and she felt the most vulnerable to the whim of the underworld deity. Should she fall, she would never have the strength to raise herself and escape from the god's clutches, whisked down into the dark kingdom in the same manner as the doomed Persephone.

She felt an arm encircle her waist, and she turned to see that Iasemi had summoned what remained of her strength to bear some of her mistress's weight. "We're nearly there," the slave gasped. "We're—"

Iasemi's words caught in her throat as the sight of gentle waves breaking on the sandy shore met her eyes. Instead, a ragged indistinguishable cry came in a staccato burst, accompanied by profuse tears. Andromache looked upon it as well and wanted to sink to her knees and have it all wash over her, but she continued on, with Iasemi's help. Astyanax began to kick feebly and whine, as though impatient himself for the coming deluge.

Without pause, the fugitives fled the brutal wastes behind them and rushed eagerly into the embrace of Poseidon.

* * *

After satiating themselves with mouthfuls of water – promptly spat out to avoid dehydration – and repeated immersions to cool their overheated bodies, the small group stood dripping on the shore and paused to look around at their surroundings.

"Have you any notion where we are?" Helen asked Paris.

"I never studied Father's charts and maps," he replied, almost defensively. "We could be anywhere. I only knew our direction of travel would eventually bring us to the shore at some point."

Andromache knelt again in the shallow waves and hastily removed Astyanax's outer swaddling, bundling the cloth and stashing it between her knees. More gently, she removed his diaper and dipped Astyanax into the incoming surf. "This doesn't look familiar to me, either," she said. Then, giving voice to a regret she had long harbored throughout this entire trek, she added, "I curse myself for not having traveled as much as I ought. What I do know is a mere pittance of what I should."

"There's no remedy for that now," Paris said, "and no sense in dwelling on it."

"One doesn't realize the importance of something until it's gone," Helen remarked wryly. "How well I know it."

Iasemi knelt beside Andromache and pointed shyly to the looming rocks behind them. "Mistress, I think we could seek shelter there," she whispered. When Andromache looked in the direction indicated, Iasemi continued. "I think I have seen dark holes in the face of the rock, but I haven't gotten close enough to be certain."

"Dark holes? You mean they might be caves?" When Iasemi nodded, she gestured for the girl to go with a nod of her head. "Search them. Gods willing, you will have guessed rightly."

The girl turned and scampered off, her vigor having been restored by the powers of the sea and the glimmer of hope reaching the shore had instilled. Paris watched her go, startled, and looked to Andromache for explanation. She informed him of Iasemi's suspicions and added, "Unless the caves are crawling with crabs, bats, and snakes, that is where I shall spend the night and all of tomorrow and for many days afterward, if that is what my tired body demands."

Helen and Paris exchanged a silent look of understanding and Paris nodded slowly. "Now that I have brought us this far, I think we can afford some days' rest."

Andromache regarded him impassively, wondering if there was any other meaning in his words. She despised this constant impulse to seek out some ulterior motive, dark intent, or selfish plot behind whatever Hector's brother said. She had told him that she had, on occasion, been genuinely fond of him. And so she had. But the narcissism of the boy had been so all encompassing, his actions recklessly dictated by whim and desire, for so many years that the collective hurt had made it almost natural to see the same pattern in everything that he did. Even when he spoke something as innocuous as this, she felt that he was only saying so because it would benefit him and whatever course he chose to pursue. His stubborn insistence on moving, always moving, had built up a pressure within her until she wanted to loose her frustration on him. She needed a release, needed to purge herself of all this. Would that a physician was amongst them now. She would order him to bleed her, or find something in his pouch of healing tricks to set her to rights.

Instead, she simply nodded curtly and stood, dangling Astyanax until his clothes didn't drip so much before securing him against her hip. Without another word, she turned and left them to follow Iasemi, the prospect of spending a night in a dry and cool enclosure urging her on.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Iasemi's eyes had not failed her; she had indeed seen caves in the rock face. The openings were somewhat small. A full grown person needed to bend nearly double to enter them but, once inside, the space was almost luxurious in contrast to the tight quarters of the door.

The floors, for lack of a better term, were of very loose, dry sand, and only minimal preparation needed to be done before they were ready for habitation. The cave chosen by Andromache for herself and Iasemi contained an empty crab shell and the bones of a dog or an animal of like size. When Iasemi picked up the skull, a piece of crab shell fell from its disintegrated gullet.

"I hope our meals here won't be as fatal," Andromache commented as Iasemi loaded her arms with the bones and ducked out through the tiny opening. Upon the girl's return, she added, "That is, if we can find something to eat at all. Have you ever fished or caught a crab?"

Iasemi shook her head.

"No, I don't suppose you would have." Andromache retreated to a seat that had been carved from the rock wall, and set Astyanax down on the sand by her feet. She stared around at the dark, shale walls and silently clapped her hands in thought. "I wonder how long it's been since this last sheltered someone. A signature mark would be amusing." She smiled in embarrassment and dropped her gaze to her hands. "I suppose I am grateful that these quarters are so close that we all can't fit in one. I welcome the solitude."

Iasemi shifted and cleared her throat softly. "If I may speak, Mistress?"

Andromache nodded. "Yes, but that is something we can ponder together here – what we can call me. Honestly, Iasemi, I have considered a score of names and each one sounds like a desperate alias."

The girl smiled slightly, but quickly assumed a more serious expression. "Now that we have reached the sea and all seems to be well, will our path continue with that of Prince Paris?"

"He seems to believe it will," Andromache replied somberly, "and I suppose he isn't mistaken. Though I would like to part ways, in terms of survival I don't think it would be wise. Strength in numbers and all." She fell silent, but her eyes remained on Iasemi. "You don't have much affection for our companions, do you?"

Iasemi started in alarm, a vehement protest on her lips when Andromache's knowing gaze cut her denial short.

"The Greeks have killed your family, just as they have mine," Andromache said quietly. "And who brought them to these shores?"

"Yes, Mistress, though Agamemnon may have come no matter the reason. A war of such brutality the fault of one or two people? It seems impossibly absurd."

"Or absurdly possible." Andromache shook her head ruefully, and then gave a genuine smile. "I don't believe you've ever been so voluble, Iasemi. I could have benefited from your company during those endless months of war. Never have I had such a valuable, if nearly always silent, attendant."

Iasemi's face blushed a deep red and she stood rigid, as if recalling her palace-bound demeanor after this temporary slip. "When one is unsure what to say, they often decide to say nothing at all."

"Regrettably wise. I wonder if it's a manner I should adopt henceforth with my brother-in-law and his wife. I'm quite certain they don't regard me with the truest affection. Whatever I say might make matters worse for me. Us."

Iasemi knelt in the sand beside Astyanax. "Please, Mistress, we have some hours here to rest. Try to lay troubling thoughts aside. All will be well."

Leaning forward from her perch, Andromache placed a hand on either side of Iasemi's face. "As you command," she murmured, smiling slightly. "Our advantage, my girl, is that of the four of us here, it is we two who possess the level heads."

"I hope your trust in me will never fail," Iasemi whispered. "My life is yours, for you brought me to safety when you had more worthy lives to consider."

Andromache felt a rending in her breast as she looked upon this devoted and faithful slave. She had cultivated a benevolent expression and behavior over the years when conversing with servants, but rarely had she felt the armor of her royalty pierced by one, so that it was the true Andromache who heard their words and felt their sorrows – and shared them.

Would you recognize me now, Hector? she thought. Bedraggled as I am, and commiserating with a slave neither of us had barely noticed in all her years in the palace? Would you say now, 'That is my wife, and she has not changed?'

These musings gave Andromache momentary pause, but like a notion quickly realized as foolish, she shrugged it away. If she was now easily befriending slaves, then it was something always present, yet hidden. She had been, and would always be, Andromache – Theban princess by birth, beloved Trojan by marriage. Nothing could ever change that.

* * *

Night fell, and with it came a torrential storm that blotted out the stars and moon, and drowned the waves of the sea in a roar that quickly numbed the ears and nerves.

From their positions inside the small caves, the fugitives could do little besides sit near their small fires – built near the openings to allow the smoke to escape – and listen to the hammering of the rain on the stone above their heads and the flooded sand outside.

"Doesn't it seem the gods are angry?" Paris asked as Helen rushed to the entrance to scoop more sand onto the small dyke they had created to prevent water from seeping inside.

"I've seen a man angrier," Helen replied. "Agamemnon once thrashed a slave close to death when the man didn't care for his horses properly. The greatest fury I have ever seen." She shook her head. "This isn't anger, but grief. Zeus is giving vent to his sorrow over our defeated people."

"If that is indeed so, his grief has been delayed," Paris replied crisply. "This is the first night I have seen immortal tears. The least Zeus could have done was to unleash such a wretched storm on the first day of conquest within my city. It would have given those Greek minds a bad omen to ponder."

"Don't be impious," Helen chided. "They would have simply donned some greased wool capes and gone about their business, certain that Zeus was only helping them wash away the blood."

Paris didn't reply as he rose and walked over to the cave's opening, skirting the small fire. He crooked one arm against his forehead and leaned against the rough stone to stare out into the storm. The rain was illuminated when a flash of lightning turned night into day, making the torrent from the sky appear like a curtain of white linen. With one foot, he shuffled more sand against the dyke Helen was currently reinforcing.

"Can you see Andromache's light?" she asked.

Paris shook his head. "No. Their cave is positioned beyond our sight." He sighed. "Just as well. She needs solitude, as do we." He let his arm fall and turned to Helen, feeling tension and worry fall from his limbs as he watched her busily working in the sand. "Come," he said, "if the water flows in, then let it. We've had no peace for many moons, and since you have at last become completely mine from the moment we fled Troy, we've never been alone. Let's seize this moment."

Helen settled back on her heels, rubbing the wet sand from her hands. She looked up at him and smiled. "Paris, you are so impractical."

"I've never heard you complain about it before," he replied, feeling the familiar heat rush through his veins as he looked upon her. She was kneeling on the other side of the fire and the flames had been captured in her golden hair, making every single curl and wave like an endless maze of reds and oranges. Even her blue eyes danced and sparkled with a peculiar shade of fire. No woman had ever remotely approached her beauty, not even by half. The effect it had on him – had always had on him – frightened him even as it drew him sensuously closer.

"No, I never have," she replied, "but we've never been forced to live in caves, either. Matters are so…different now."

"Different?" he asked. "Not in our love for each other, that much I know. The very sight of you still makes me lose rational thought."

Helen smiled again and Paris felt fear nip at him when he thought her expression seemed more pitying than passionate. "I would have been flattered in another day, Paris," she said, "even after your brother said this supposed spell of mine on you was more like that of a snake ready to strike."

Paris walked around the fire and fell to his knees beside her. "That was one of Hector's fits of anger," he said hotly, "and I told him his accusation was cruel and false."

"And I recall that he said it was only a fit of candor. He meant it, I'm sure of it."

"What does that matter now?" Paris demanded as he brushed damp curls from her temples. "He eventually accepted you, and even if he didn't, he is no longer here to say such things ever again."

"But Andromache is." She paused, as though unsure how to continue, but she shook her head, visibly perplexed. "She and Hector were so alike that I found it difficult to know when one stopped and the other began. Their thoughts were similar, their beliefs and sense of duty so intertwined, that when I look at her, even now, I see your brother. Neither of them truly liked me. Both considered me a vile woman."

"Helen, you're not think—"

"You said so yourself the other night," she pressed. "You saw how she rebuffed me, even when I offered my aid. My love, I'm despised in Sparta and Mycenae, and only a handful of the people in Troy truly approved of my presence. When your father died, he was the last one, besides you, who would greet me with any kindness."

Paris had fallen silent as she hoarsely whispered these observations and certainties, the wounded tone in which she spoke striking his heart and ears as being honest and true. "I know you have suffered, Helen," he murmured. "I have often felt the same as you within my own home. But I'm not certain if I understand what you're suggesting. You wish to leave Andromache? Let her go if she wishes?"

Helen made to nod, but slumped as though such a gesture was too definite. "I—I don't know," she said weakly, bringing a hand to her forehead and staring at the fire in resignation. "I only want rest, some peace. I want the eyes of those around me to be admiring, or at least kindly. Andromache is always at war with herself when she speaks or looks at me. I have seen it. I can't blame her for feeling like that. I killed her husband, as surely as Achilles did."

"My poor Helen." Paris enveloped her in his arms and brought his lips to her hair, kissing those flame-drenched tresses with the same fervor he had bestowed upon her mouth. Every fiber of her was precious to him, every inch of skin and strand of hair worth protecting with his life. In all the time they had been lovers, he had rarely seen her truly happy. From her misery with Menelaus in their first days together, to the dark cloud of Greek anger and pursuit that had chased them across the Aegean on their flight from Sparta, and to the bloody grip of the Greeks on the sands of Troy, there had always been something to dread, something to fear. At this moment, he would do anything to cast it aside permanently so that they could revel in each other, lose themselves in pleasure with no thought of what loomed on the horizon or lurked within the corridors. Disapproving stares and dark thoughts would be plagues of the past, he vowed.

Soon he sensed that it was he losing himself in his wife's arms when, only moments before, she had been the one seeking comfort. As he dwelt on her pain and rejection, he allowed hot tears to flow, dampening the shoulder of her gown.

While Paris sobbed softly, letting the sound of the rain absorb his sadness, Helen clasped him tightly, but no shudder ran through her. Yet from her blue eye and splashing onto her lover's cheek was one tear.

A tear perfectly formed, exquisitely shed, and eerily cold.

* * *

**So, has updating quickly (though I merely just snagged the already completed chapter off the computer) earned me some feedback? Does this fic suck? Too slow-paced? Not liking the characterizations? Peeved that Briseis is gone? I won't know unless you tell me!**  



	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The fires had been long since doused, each one finding death in the early hours of the night. Wind had joined the maelstrom and the position of the caves' openings lost their advantage. Though the storm had approached from the sea – opposite to the caves – the wind had quickly made such a position entirely irrelevant, as it carried the rain in every direction. Soon the fires were sputtering and valiantly trying to stay alive from the onslaught of the storm, alternately flaring to life from the wind and smothered by the rain. Andromache gauged that it was nearing mid-evening when she bid Iasemi put out the fire.

The morning was calm, just as it always was after such a storm. Iasemi nudged the cold, damp charred wood with a foot and tried to remember if there had been other branches and twigs where they had gathered the fuel the previous evening. She had been so exhausted that now she wasn't certain if there had been or not. She looked out through the cave and bit her lip in thought. The light was still dim, and she could see that there were dark shades of purples and greys covering the sky. The storm had ceased, but the gods weren't yet pleased to allow the sun to return. She hugged herself and tried to suppress a shiver. In this damp cave, matters would be more tolerable if there was some warmth to step out into. But, looking at the sky, it seemed unlikely that it would happen soon.

A soft whine from behind her met her ears and she turned quickly to see Astyanax's swaddling blanket doing a fussy dance as he kicked his feet and punched the air in a subdued fit of infant pique. She noticed that Andromache had rolled onto her side away from this unpleasant irritation, but nothing else about her mistress indicated that she was awake. Her loose-limbed pose was of one quite unconscious.

Iasemi tiptoed over to Astyanax and crouched beside him, a finger over her lips. "Hush," she whispered, "you must let your mother sleep."

Astyanax refused to heed her, instead intensifying the force of his rebellion. Iasemi scooped him up and hopped over the dead campfire out of the cave and into the murky dawn, whereupon she shook him once and scolded, "That wasn't very kingly, Your Majesty! Your mother needs her rest!" She sniffed. "But first, I think the royal clothes need changing. Then you can come along with me to fetch wood. In this meager light, if I can't see a good piece of kindling, then I rely on you to tell me."

The infant was uninterested in her admonishment, instead balling up his fists and jamming them against his eyes in further stirrings of a tantrum.

Iasemi quickly settled the baby into the crook of her arm and rocked him gently as she hied herself further away from the cave, not wanting his inevitable cries to reach his mother's ears. She cast another worried glance at the sky, wishing that the clouds would disperse somewhat so that the sun, when it rose, would have more effect. The desert from which they had come was featureless in this dim light. That was hardly any surprise, she thought. It was barren and unremarkable at the height of day.

She remembered the state of Astyanax's diapers and held him out before her gingerly as she trudged around the rock formations and slogged through the sand towards the water's edge. She was glad that she hadn't been so fastidious as to put her sandals on before leaving the cave, since the sand was burying her feet up to her ankles with every step.

There was a small pool created by rocks jutting knee height from the shore, ideal for her purpose, and Iasemi slowly made her way towards it in the cumbersome sand. Falling to her knees in the edge of the water, she unwrapped Astyanax's outer diapers and again marveled at the jewels and gold that had remained concealed for so many weary miles. She wondered if Prince Paris and his wife knew just how much her mistress had managed to secrete in the young king's clothes. Princess Andromache had taken no pains to inform them of the exact amount, and great pains at keeping Astyanax's diaper changing a quick and smoothly executed affair.

Twisting the edges of the cloth together, she set it on a rock to her right and went about the distasteful task of cleaning her king. "You won't punish me for having spoken so disrespectfully, I know," she murmured, "because you don't even know what your own name is, and so you can't understand a word I say. But you know what your mother's name is now, don't you? Did you hear us talking about it last night? Iasemi is so horrible at devising names for things. I could barely think of what to call those little kittens that Damaris kept insisting I adopt. 'Your quarters are so far away from the mistress,' she said. 'It's the perfect place for them,' she said. 'We'll come and visit them and no one ever need know,' she said. Nephele, little Astyanax. Can you say 'Nephele'? That is your mummy's name now. I hope I remember it. Maybe if I say it enough, it'll stick in my mind for more than a few minutes. Nephele…Nephele…"

Iasemi paused and stared at the infant, held out in her arms and dripping. On Astyanax's face was what she could only describe as bewilderment.

"At least you're not annoyed, Your Majesty, but, yes, I think poor Iasemi is going insane," she continued, twisting him back and forth in the breeze. "She's nervous as a cat, and that's no lie. That's no lie…"

Iasemi shook her head in a combination of worry, and rebuke to not worry. Simply change the baby, she told herself. One task at a time.

Astyanax calmed and allowed her to complete his changing with no difficulty. Even when she tied that onerous treasure bundle around him, he gave not a whimper. She fancied that he, in his own baby way, had taken pity on her during her hopeless ramblings and would, at least for a short while, cooperate with her in whatever she did.

She stood and gave Astyanax's padded bottom a final pat as she surveyed the land from the direction she had come. The previous night, she had searched for wood in the immediate vicinity and found adequate supply for one night. But she was certain there was little more to be had. She would have to search further afield and return soon. Andromache and the others would want something to huddle around, something to cook their meal over.

To her left, the rocky shore jutted out into the sea, a promontory from which she decided she could see exactly what she was looking for. Any deadwood would, hopefully, meet her eye and long, wasted minutes of searching by foot would be eliminated. Grasping a fold of her tunic, she fashioned a sling and settled Astyanax into it. Without further delay, she set off across the beach, her mind now set on her next task.

The climb took little effort. In steep places, there was always a rock or a piece of brush to grasp and haul herself up. Still, she nearly slipped twice and regretted that she had not returned Astyanax to the cave before embarking on this climb. From her position on the beach she hadn't realized that carrying a baby, even if in a sling, would be so cumbersome. Yet she was already this far, and it would take valuable time to relieve herself of him and re-attempt to scale the promontory. Gritting her teeth, Iasemi continued to make her way upwards and told herself over and over that there wasn't much further to go.

When she looked up and saw that the height was within her grasp, she rasped a ragged prayer of gratitude to Zeus and found sudden strength to clamber up to the top. Her exertions had set her head reeling, strange explosions of light and darkness veiling her eyes. She waved off this dizziness and stood still until her body accustomed itself to its new position. Only scant minutes had passed since her foot took its first step on the slope, but the sky had lightened considerably. Clouds still marched sluggishly above her, but their hues were not so leaden and oppressive.

The sights above her now in welcome focus, Iasemi turned her attention to the terrain on the other side of the promontory and realized that there was a cove at some distance, nestled in the shadows against the base of another, larger promontory further to the north. From where she stood, the cove appeared to be more hospitable than their mean shelter. At first glance, any sea-borne fury would be deflected by the location of surrounding rocks and trees.

She blinked, spots of darkness still stubbornly clinging to her vision, like the first drops of dye in water. But rather than being amorphous and dissipate, these were persistently solid and unmoving. She blinked several more times, but they would not disappear. As she was about to bring her hands to her eyes to rub away the irritation, more dark spots appeared. But these did not remain fixed. They scurried, they weaved, they spoke. They were in the distance, and others were on the slope beneath her. Coming closer.

Her skin leapt, prickling painfully like being enveloped in a sudden gust of sand and wind. Before she could try to pacify her wildly pounding heart with the thought that the men below were perhaps merchants or nearby villagers, her fear – far from blurring her senses – made each one clear with excruciating perfection. Above all, those spots along the shore took the unmistakable shape of warships, black sails slack against their masts as the eyes painted on the bow glared balefully at some fixed point before them. Iasemi had seen those ships before, careening madly towards Troy's beaches with the bloodlust of their occupants and immortal champions urging them on.

_Myrmidons._ The armor, gleaming dully on their backs, heads, and limbs, clanged as they scrambled up the brush-covered incline, like a nest of ants that had been stirred to activity with the poke of a stick. And she, appearing so suddenly, had been the stick.

Though fear relentlessly gripped every one of her limbs, Iasemi found it within herself to wrench her mind away from meekly submitting to this close encroaching doom. She couldn't cling to even the remotest hope that any fate would be tolerable at the hands of Myrmidons. She was already a slave, yes, but there were other forms of bondage she knew she could never endure.

Wrapping her arms tightly around Astyanax, she spun around and bolted down the way she had come. A chorus of shouts rose from her pursuers, and Iasemi redoubled her efforts to outpace them. She leapt over brush and rocks, trusting in her legs to not buckle or her ankles to twist as she skittered down the slope. Yet a thorny bush stood perversely in her path and one of the branches gleefully snagged her gown when she failed to give it a wider berth on her headlong dash. The sharp rending of fabric pierced the dull pounding of blood in her ears, but only momentarily. The branch had her garment in a stubborn hold and, when she reached the end of this tether, the cloth, far from ripping free, refused to surrender. Iasemi pitched forward, screaming half in fear for herself, and half for the bundle in her arms.

Iasemi crumpled around Astyanax, hoping she would bear the brunt of the fall, no matter where she landed. A white-hot pain shot through her left shoulder and arm as it slammed into the rough and unforgiving terrain. She screamed in naked agony, then her mind became a whirl as she tumbled, bounced, and slid down the remainder of the slope. All the while, some shred of her reason kept itself fixed on Astyanax, praying that the bundle would not emerge lifeless.

She slid into the deep sand that nestled at the base of the promontory and lay there for precious seconds as she struggled to regain her breath and her senses. She felt thoroughly rattled, like a puny toy in the hand of angry Zeus.

A muted and distressed wail stirred her. She feebly lifted her head and saw that Astyanax had rolled from her arms and now lay in a tangle of swaddling. His cry didn't have an audible edge of pain, though no doubt he felt somewhat battered as she. When she tried to creep forward, her left shoulder flooded in excruciating pain and she could hear dislocated bone scrape on bone. It numbed her from head to foot and she despaired of ever moving again, but with a final effort, she flopped into her back. She could now see her pursuers on the brow of the hill, and their pace visibly slowed. What reason was there for them to rush? She, their quarry, was trapped and made helpless by her injuries, like a wounded deer watching the hounds approach.

Iasemi flung out her right arm, but her fingers only barely brushed Astyanax. Short, panting cries keened through teeth gritted in pain and terror. Her mind, what little was left rational, raced. What to do? What would her mistress do if she were in her place? Swallow the pain – any pain – and stagger away? A foolish and brave act. Capture was inevitable.

Thought left Iasemi. She was no princess or queen. She had not one lofty drop of blood in her veins. She didn't care how such people would face this situation. She was a slave, with little left to sacrifice. She gave herself over to her fears and screamed, an animal cry that sheared through the smooth, undulating rumble of the waves.

* * *

It's my plan to have Briseis & Aeneas reappear, though that probably won't be for some time yet. The bulk of the story will be following Andromache in captivity, and Paris and Helen on the run. The Aeneas & Briseis thread will converge with the other two near the end. Pursuing three separate threads successfully is way beyond my skills, so I'm not even going to try. I'm not all that familiar with The Aeneid anyway. I had to read it in college, but I don't remember a thing – Part II of Meyerbeer's opera "Les Troyens" is just about all I know when it comes to Aeneas. (Cassandre's mad scene at the end of Part I is phenomenal, btw.) Since I'm writing 3 other fics, I can only do so much research. :-) I'll leave Briseis fic to those who like her. She's not my favorite. Though I despise Helen and Paris, they fascinate me at the same time. 

I appreciate all your comments and feedback, and I take them into account when I write or revise! I hope this fic continues to be interesting as the chapters go on.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

****Andromache's eyes flew open as a scream invaded her small sanctuary. She scrambled to her feet and glanced around the cave in confusion when she found herself alone. Quick on the heels of the first cry came another, and Andromache felt her body flush hot, then deathly cold, in terror and foreboding when more frantic searching revealed that Astyanax was not in the cave with her.

She leaped over the cold ashes of the fire and ducked through the opening, paying no heed to the rough stone edge that scraped her bare arm as she careened out into the salty sea air. Her eyes flinched at the unwelcome light after so many hours in darkness and she staggered in the direction she recalled from the night before as leading towards the shore. Peering from between half-closed lids, she almost cried in frustration at her inability to see.

Male shouts met her ears and she bolted forward, fear staying her but briefly. It was reckless, she knew, and she was being heedless of all the dangers she had spent the past days telling herself over and over that she would avoid. Yet she couldn't avoid this. Even if Astyanax was safe in her arms, she doubted that she would let Iasemi's screams fall on her ears, not acted upon.

Skirting the rocks, her vision now fully restored, she approached the beach and froze at the sight of her servant being hauled to her feet by two men in a group of six soldiers, each man clad in black armor. A ragged bunch they were, beards coarse and unshorn, and each man possessed at least one bandaged limb. They were men come straight from battle, a war. The color of their armor and their pitiless features marked them as only one possible race.

Myrmidons.

Hatred mixed with fear. What havoc she would wreak upon them if she had a sword in her hand! That opportunity had been denied her during the long siege, the duty of repelling the Achaean horde firmly belonging to the men of Troy. Andromache knew, however, that not one Trojan woman would have flinched from bearing arms, should it have ever come to that. Who knows – perhaps they had done so while she had fled, her hatred giving in to fear at the moment of Troy's breach.

She watched, paralyzed, as one of the soldiers turned from the others and bent to retrieve a bundle from the sandy beach. A feeble whine sounded as her son was scooped up into murderous arms.

All fear fled. Even with no weapon, she wished to plunge herself into the thick of them with the fury of their beloved Ajax. She had vowed that no Greek would ever touch Hector's heir and the violation of her oath made her anger flare such as she had never experienced.

She did not pause to think rationally. It was not possible to do so. Hector had entrusted their son to her, to nurture this seed of Troy's rebirth. She had already failed Astyanax by her inability to persuade Hector to dismiss Achilles' call for personal combat as the grieving bluster it was. She would not again stand by helpless and watch another taken from her by the hated Achaeans. Consequences mattered little.

Abandoning the rocks behind which she had been hiding, she raced across the beach as fast as the deep sand would allow. The Myrmidons' attention was quickly drawn to her, turning as one. Iasemi, sagging between the grip of her two captors, lifted her head wearily, and her expression crumpled in pained resignation.

Andromache bolted straightway for the man holding her son, and he took a step backwards as another of his comrades interposed himself between her and her objective. Andromache halted, scant feet away from this new barrier. He made no move, only stood there, silent, as though waiting amusedly for whatever move she could possibly make, knowing all were doomed to failure.

"The boy," she said, struggling to remain calm. "Put him down."

Laughter erupted from the soldier standing before her and quickly spread to the others. Iasemi gave a keening wail as the mirthful shudders of those holding her jarred her broken body.

Andromache watched, horrified, as the one holding Astyanax turned to another and, still chuckling, let the bundle fly from his arms. Her son did not cry, for Hector had often swung Astyanax high into the air, and the receiving Myrmidon caught him deftly. With a laugh, he held the bundle up high and shook it playfully.

"Tydeus!" he called to the soldier who loomed before Andromache. "What do we do with him now?"

Tydeus gestured carelessly, as though in boredom. "Kill it. We have enough swag that it'll be a feat to squeeze these two women aboard. Last thing our captain needs is a baby."

"Both women?" asked one of the Myrmidons holding Iasemi. "Is this one of any use? Her arms seem broken." As if to emphasize his point, he shook the slave, prompting another cry of anguish from Iasemi.

"They'll heal in time," Tydeus replied with a grotesque grin, "and if not, there'll always be a use for her."

Andromache felt her insides twist in grief and guilt. Had Iasemi not felt bound to follow her, she would not now be hanging limply between two Greek brutes. Had she been more persuasive with her husband, perhaps she and Hector together could have protected their son after Troy's fall. These thoughts paralyzed her as a thousand different courses of action descended upon her, tangling into a senseless mire. She was unable to discern one prudent or successful tact she might pursue.

When the man holding Astyanax reached for his knife and withdrew it from the sheath strapped to his thigh, Andromache sprang forward, thinking naught of the barriers that lay before her. To reach Astyanax, she would have dodge or disarm each Myrmidon who stepped in her path. It would become a game to them, her humiliation a cause for laughter at that evening's fire.

Capture, even death, was a foregone conclusion at this point, but the futility of it gave her no pause. The soldier nearest her, he who was called Tydeus, reached out an iron-muscled arm and snaked it around her waist, lifting her off the ground. Thrashing in his grip, she raked her broken nails down his cheeks and kicked with all her fury, slamming her feet into his unprotected knees.

The Myrmidon had not expected such a furious attack, and was taken off guard momentarily. He grappled her around the shoulders and flung her away from him, directly into the arms of another.

Andromache watched the wounded Myrmidon run one hand down his cheek and inspect the blood streaked over his palm. His expression quickly turned murderous and he stalked towards her. "You'll regret that later, but first you can watch us kill the brat."

He withdrew his own knife and indicated to the other blade-wielding soldier that the task was now his.

Astyanax was now screaming and Andromache felt her own throat clench and emit a howl of desperation that she hoped the gods could hear. _Artemis!_ she screamed silently. _If you ever intercede again, let it be now!_ She wept helplessly as she watched the black-clad bringer of death advance towards her son, and closed her eyes as the grief overwhelmed her.

A hoarse bellow issued from above. It pierced Andromache's ears, slicing through her sobs and the sounds of jocular bloodlust from the gathered Myrmidons. She followed the sound, craning her neck upwards. The armor of the soldier holding her struck against the back of her head, so tightly had he pinned her to him. Through her teary eyes, she could see a vague shadow against the sky on the promontory.

The rough voice tumbled down the hillside again. This time Andromache could distinguish words, though the dialect at this distance was difficult for her to decipher. Achaeans from all regions had come to Troy or Thebe at one time or another, for one reason or another, but she had not become as proficient at the different dialects as had others in Priam's court.

Whoever the intruder was – and it certainly was not Paris – had given the gathered Myrmidons pause. A breeze from the sea swept over her, drying her cheeks and gathering up her tears. She blinked and shook her head vigorously, hoping to dash this distorted blindness away. She looked up again in time to see the shadow acquire the same shape and color as those that held her and Iasemi prisoner. He was another Myrmidon, most certainly. But he was either a respected fellow soldier or he held rank over them, compelling obedience.

Andromache barely felt a breath or pulse issuing from her captor, and she found herself holding her breath in a mixture of anticipation, fear, and curiosity. She tried to discern the expressions of the other soldiers. Were they afraid? Was this man possible of dispensing worse punishment? Was he a covetous sort who seized all the spoils? She worried that she had only been briefly spared the agony of watching her son's murder. Babies were of no worth to any invader. Even Priam had put infants to the sword in his early years of war, before he had found the virtues of peace.

The figure was now halfway down the promontory, but he did not allow the height to propel his steps. He continued inexorably down the slope, his pace ever deliberate and constant. The cadence of his steps began a steady beat against her senses, like the sound of a mournful drum in a funeral procession.

Tydeus advanced as the approaching Myrmidon reached the base of the promontory. "Captain," he said, before the other man could speak, "we found—"

"You gave chase," was the curt reply. "I saw you all run off after her with no thought that it might be a trap."

Tydeus paused, glancing at the other soldiers with chagrin. "I beg forgiveness, Captain. The war is over and our judgment lapsed."

"Thank Zeus it was not a fatal error." He then swept his gaze over the rest of the assembled soldiers. "But each one of you have forfeited a share of your spoils by this act," he said. "Upon our return home, you will each make a gift to Athena, begging her to give you a grain of wisdom. I will not have fools in my ranks. Understood?"

Andromache felt her captor shift uncomfortably at this general rebuke, the soldier jumping slightly when his captain looked at him specifically and added, "You, Xuthos, can spare one or two tripods. I see your spoils contain every metal under the sun."

"Yes, Captain," was the obedient reply.

Andromache watched him as he turned from the task of disciplining his soldiers, his attention caught by the kicking bundle in the arms of a chastened Myrmidon. "So you gave chase to one and have caught three," he said. "Dispatching of the babe so quickly?"

The tone of his voice made Andromache's heart sink. He sounded dispassionate, if not exactly cruel. The life of a squalling baby obviously meant little to him after the endless months slaughtering Trojans and sacking the towns and cities in the region. The only weapon she had at hand was a mother's plea, and she would wield it as best she could.

"My lord," she began, struggling lightly against fleshly manacles. "Please, before you strike him down, hear me." She did not have to feign sorrow or consciously allow her voice to throb pitifully. There was absolutely nothing that could save Astyanax now except for what she might conjure. Paramount was keeping his identity secret. Should she slip but remotely, this lonely beach would drink the blood of Hector's son.

The Myrmidon captain advanced. "Xuthos, release her."

Andromache felt her arms flood with sensation as the stranglehold was suddenly removed. She rubbed at her numb limbs and took a hesitant step forward. When Tydeus quickly strode to his captain's side, he was waved aside with a small laugh. "Think I'm in danger, Tydeus? She's not armed."

"If my face is any indication, those claws of hers give her more advantage than proper."

"It'll heal," from his commander, unsympathetic.

Side by side, Tydeus was the more fearsome of the two, and he continued to glare at her balefully, her assault not likely to be forgotten for some time. His build was formidable and would have given many of Troy's defenders pause. No doubt many had fallen to his sword and been stripped of their armor. It gave Andromache satisfaction that he was forced to part with at least one item on the order of his captain.

"I was defending my baby," Andromache said, launching into her appeal. "My name is Nephele, wife to an honorable man of trade in a town distant from here, but not far enough from the Achaeans, it seems. He is dead, and I fled with naught but my son and servant."

She paused briefly, searching for any indication that her words were having their intended effect. It was difficult to tell. The Myrmidon's eyes, upon closer inspection, were an unsettling shade of blue, almost like the ice dragged from the mountains to cool the delicacies on Priam's table. Creases and wrinkles common to those who spent hours under the brutal sun flanked these eyes. Andromache had seen such features lend their bearers an air of gentleness and humor, but this man possessed neither. His cheeks and throat were covered by a short, bristly beard, tinged with grey, and tied around his lank, dark hair was a wide strip of dark wool, stained with sweat and blood. The diadem of a warrior. About him was the air of a man well acquainted with war and its demands, demands he fulfilled without compunction. His very stance was that of one unswerving in purpose. Achilles would not have been so feared or famed without such men in his army.

Babies had always died in war. And Andromache feared that it would not stop with hers. The Myrmidons would sacrifice him in their merciless way.

"Your son and servant, you say?"

So deeply had Andromache fallen into her own thoughts and observations that when he spoke, it startled her. "Yes," she replied. "Please, we have spent many weeks going from town to town, only to find no one willing or able to give us permanent refuge. It was only chance that made your men aware of us. Allow us to go on our way. We have absolutely nothing of value for you. As one of your men has said, my servant's arms are possibly broken. She would only burden you."

She deliberately tried to forget that her own body was of value to any raider, but she could see that it was not far from the minds of those gathered. Forcing down a wave of nausea, Andromache waited for him to speak again. She did not dare to say more. It was a simple enough story, and simplicity often proved more effective than the most intricate lie. She only hoped that Iasemi, though in obvious pain, would not let slip any detail that could brand them irrevocably as deceivers.

"A plea so well-spoken deserves a response. I am Eudorus, commander of the Myrmidons."

Andromache nodded shakily, but then stopped and looked at him questioningly. "It's widely believed that the Myrmidons are led by immortal Achilles. Then that is not so?" Her ready acknowledgement of his leadership had quickly made her fear that he would wonder how she knew of Achilles' death if she had been wandering amongst remote villages for weeks. She desperately hoped her error would not be detected. Subterfuge had never been a preoccupation of hers, but now she realized that her life – or what remained of it – would consist of little else.

"Brave Achilles has indeed met his death," the new commander informed her, voice heavy. "He sent us homeward while he remained behind to breach Troy, so we did not see him fall, but the day after the sky was aflame, the smoke of a great pyre rose to meet the clouds. It pricked the vault and was immediately embraced. No hero but Achilles could have received such a welcome by the gods."

Achilles' name had cast a visible pall over the assembled soldiers, no one cloaked more fully by it than the dead warrior's blue-eyed successor. Weary faces had seemed to become even more drawn and fatigued, but Eudorus' words seemed to reduce the pain somewhat. She would have felt pity for men being deprived of their beloved leader, had they been anyone other than these butchers. Let _them_ feel the sting of loss and drink bitter sorrow! Her own heart had been forced to suffer its share and would surely suffer more.

"Eudorus, my lord," she began, muting the spite she felt in her heart, "I will make offerings to your generosity should you let us be on our way. Our path has not yet ended and I have hope that final refuge is but down the road." Against her will, she felt her expression alight, expectant.

"It lies across the sea," came the flat and cold reply. He strode forward and grasped her about the wrist.

The five words struck Andromache squarely in her chest, nearly robbing her of all senses. Her ears heard nothing else, her eyes flooding with visions of that rocky and barbaric spawning ground from which every Achaean had come. She reflexively tried to jerk her arm out of his grip, but his hold was too solid. "Come," he addressed his men, "back to the ships. Let us abandon this cursed land and take what we can from it."

"And this?" Astyanax was held into the air by his bearer.

Eudorus opened his mouth, but when Andromache began to tug against his grip again, he turned to his own captive. "If he is not killed now, he'll be killed later or die on the voyage."

"You would do it?" she spat. "It seems I am now yours. Thus, he is now under your graces as well. I warrant he would not be the first baby you have killed."

His expression did not alter. "Tydeus has ripped them from the womb." He regarded her impassively and Andromache's gaze darted to the tall warrior who was already ascending the hill. "So," he went on, "would you rather him do the deed, or I?"

Andromache wrenched her stricken eyes from the departing Tydeus. "One day," she rasped. "Please. Let me have my son for one more day. I shall toss him into the sea myself, if that be your will!" When Eudorus appeared to hesitate, she cried, "Is rapine, death and plunder your creed, whether it is war or not? Whether one can raise a sword against you or not? Does your armor deflect arrows _and_ all mercy? Had I known the name of Achilles would make you so vengeful, I would not have mentioned it!"

Never far from her mind was the fact that the killer of their glorious commander rested a scant distance away, not showing himself. It was just as well that, if Paris were indeed suffering from another attack of cowardice, he remain thusly afflicted. Even if he managed to loose an arrow or two, the advantage of surprise would soon be lost as sheer numbers and strength overwhelmed them. Were Paris to show his face, their sure defeat would end with thorough brutality. The Myrmidons would set upon the golden armored archer with a viciousness that she could not bear to imagine.

"Very well. One day."

Andromache's cry of relief was cut short as he strode across the sand with her in tow, quickly seizing the baby from the other Myrmidon by a fistful of swaddling. The soldier relinquished him, but was noticeably confused when his captain did not proceed to slay the infant, instead transferring him to the mother's waiting and open arms.

The joy of having him in her embrace once more completely erased the pain in her wrist from Eudorus's grip, now gone. She ran her hands over Astyanax's rump. At least some of the gold and jewelry was still there, though perhaps a piece or two had fallen into the sands and were now lost. No matter. They were of no use now. The purpose of using them to barter transport or buy protection was no longer relevant. Unless she could find a place to conceal them aboard the ship, they would be slipped over the side to rest at the bottom of the sea.

Andromache's absorption in contemplating her son and future actions was interrupted by the pitiful whimper of Iasemi as she was dragged past her, still held upright by the two Myrmidons. The girl was nearly delirious, the pain in her body robbing her of consciousness. Apart from a few scratches and abrasions, her malady appeared to be entirely internal, and the odd angle at which her left arm dangled begged attention.

She bit back an inquiry as to whether the girl's suffering would be shortened. Better not to issue such a challenge and reverse the meager mercy she had been thus shown. It pained Andromache greatly to see the girl suffering. She had no knowledge of how Iasemi's actions had captured the attention of the marauding Myrmidons, but the girl, while young, was not foolish. It had been pure chance or, Andromache feared with a sinking heart, Fate that had crossed the two paths. To think that this was meant to be, that mighty Zeus had decided to smash not only Troy by the lives of all within its royal house…

A sharp prod in the small of her back from Eudorus sent her into the wake of Iasemi and her escort. Andromache clasped Astyanax to her tightly as the slope of the hill met her feet. Each day found her with less to call her own. The cave that sat behind them contained the lion's share of her possessions, even if it was a stained sack stuffed with scraps of food and unremarkable clothes. Greatest of all, her freedom had been torn from her startled hands. She would eat, she would have other clothes, but her liberty was forever gone.

Soon she was at the top of the hill and Andromache's gaze was compelled towards the ships lined along the shore. Another prod in her back warned her to not slacken her pace, and she submitted silently, hastening her steps down the slope. Upon reaching the shore, she fought down the urge to shrink under the scrutiny of the black eyes that were painted on the prow of each ship. Their baleful glare dared her to not tremble in fear. Though Andromache was tempted to succumb, pride suddenly stiffened her spine and she walked onward without a shiver, her eyes never leaving those of the ships.

Though it seemed that these circumstances could not be turned around to favor her, her mind and heart told her that it might not be an impossibility.

* * *

After what felt like hours, Helen's hand slipped from Paris's shoulder to rest on his arm. Her fingers ached from the tight grip she had maintained, though she was not certain that Paris would have bolted if her hold were slighter. The sky had cleared and the sun had finally fulfilled its purpose of warming the air. The cave was beginning to lose its wretched dampness, but the tense hours of waiting, hidden, had stiffened her bones and muscles more than any chill could boast. She wanted, more than anything, to step outside and sink into the warming sand. 

As though her grip had been what steadied him, she felt Paris begin to tremble beneath her hand. With a shuddering heave of his shoulders, he braced himself against the cave floor and remained there in visible agony. "What have we done?"

"The only thing we could do," she replied calmly. "There was no other choice."

He raised his head and stared out through the cave entrance. "I am going out. Even if they have not yet gone, I am going out there." Before she could react, he was halfway out through the narrow opening.

"Paris! Wait a while longer!" Helen cried softly, trying to grab at his ankle before he was completely beyond her reach. "There is nothing you can do!" But he was already out through the entrance, crouched defensively and searching for any signs of danger.

Not long after the beach was rattled by a series of screams, Helen had peeked out through the cave just in time to see Andromache rounding some rocks, blindly rushing into who knew what. With great effort, she had prevented Paris from following suit. It was only through a quick and brutally honest appeal for survival that had stayed Paris from indulging in a headlong rush into danger. The screams had only quieted to be replaced by the gruff and harsh laughter of men, and words were not needed for either of them to know that Andromache and her servant had stumbled into situation from which they could not be extracted. Not without harm or death falling on their own heads. It had tortured Paris to wait, to remain secreted in his own sanctuary and deliberately allow Andromache to flounder outside alone. But Helen knew her lover well and could discern the flickers of relief and fear that alternately smoothed and knotted his features.

Paris now moved further away from the entrance, still crouched, and Helen slowly followed behind him. They slunk towards a gathering of rocks that jutted from the sands and peered over them. The beach was completely deserted. All that remained was a trail of many footprints ascending a nearby slope, a trail that soon vanished among the rough, wind-blasted rocks and coarse ground brush.

Both strained to hear any word or murmur on the breeze, but when nothing met their ears apart from the cries of gulls and the slap of waves, Paris abandoned his blind and walked tentatively across the beach. His steps were slow, almost leaden, and Helen could see that guilt had already begun to roll his shoulders. His impressive armor was back in the cave, and so he stood in a simple tunic and hose, alone on a scene that silently reproached him for his inaction. In that moment, Helen thought he looked like a shepherd that had lost his flock, a misfortune he had never endured on Mount Ida.

Helen felt a tightening in her chest as she looked upon the boy who could melt her heart and fray her nerves by turns. His vulnerability had been endearingly charming after the gruff manner of Menelaus, but in moments such as this, a spirit of iron was most needed. All was not lost with Paris. She would help him forge his weakness into something that would cause those petty Achaean kings to regret their slavish obedience to Agamemnon's call to arms.

He had nearly reached the base of the slope when she watched him pause, kick at something in the sand, and bend to retrieve it. Curious herself, Helen hastened to his side and peered curiously at the item he held in his hand.

It was an earring, and Helen remembered that Andromache had worn them the night Troy fell. A ring of gold dangled from the hook that went through one's lobe, and attached to that ring was an intricate network of fine sticks and rings of gold. So delicate it was that it almost appeared to be a web of the precious metal. The first night of their escape, Andromache had removed them and, Helen recalled, stashed the jewelry inside Astyanax's blanket.

She opened her mouth to speak, to soothe Paris before his guilt could deepen but, as in the cave, he dashed away before she could stop him. He scaled the slope and Helen was left with no choice but to follow him. He had left behind in the cave his bow and the arrows made beside each night's campfire. He was completely unarmed except for a solitary earring, and she had even less to protect themselves from any attack if whomever had taken Andromache still lingered.

When she reached the top of the promontory, Helen found Paris standing rigid, his gaze fixed intently towards the sea. At first she could not see if anything in particular was holding his interest, but then she thought that, strangely, there were some odd shapes riding the waves still some distance from the horizon.

"Pirates?" Helen whispered. "They have captured Andromache?"

Paris's reply was sad and grim. "Worse. See those black sails? Myrmidons. And they have Astyanax."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

It seemed a cruel mockery that the one and only night of rest, of knowing that the next day would not be another torturous march under Paris' wary eye, had been marked by a vicious storm. Not one moment of peace had been granted them. Every day of that agonizing trek had seen a sun nearly bursting with its overbearing brilliance. Such days were tolerable, even welcomed, within the cool walls of Priam's palace. Unprotected in the wilderness, they were brutal and withering.

So it did not escape Andromache's notice that, scant hours after being herded aboard the lead Myrmidon vessel, the skies were rid of all but a few wispy clouds and the sun mixed agreeably with the mild sea air with sporadic interludes of sweltering exposure. The peace and calm that she had so desperately wanted during her rest in the cave was now showing itself.

Though not exactly shoved to the deck, she had been firmly pushed to her knees in a cramped quarter near the stern. Nearby, various bundles, wrapped in protective layers of sail cloth, were lashed to the sun-bleached and splintered rail, and there was barely enough space for her to sit without having to fold her knees to her chest. Beside her, the two Myrmidons bearing Iasemi deposited their burden ungently. Andromache frantically clasped Astyanax to her as tight as she could with one arm while her other snapped out to break Iasemi's fall and ease her onto her back. Not that the girl would have felt anything. She had fainted long before they had reached the ship.

As soon as the leading ship set sail, the curious and outright calculating stares had ceased as the men shed the idle acquisitiveness of soldiers at liberty and set about the watchful business of sailors on an unpredictable sea. Andromache was relieved to see most eyes turn from her, so fearful was she that, by mere scrutiny, the Myrmidons could divine her true name and blood. With this new semblance of privacy, tucked away among bundles of rich fabrics and, if her nose was unerring, expensive spices and oils, perhaps she could recover her wits. They had been scattered to the four winds and she needed every scrap of cunning to insure the life of her son.

One day. She had one day to devise a ploy, though her sinking heart told her that she needed to conjure a miracle to save Astyanax.

Iasemi moaned and began to stir beside her, and Andromache was forced to put her matter aside to tend the bruised girl. She ran a hand along Iasemi's brow and tried to summon a comforting smile so that when the girl's eyes opened, she might be put at some ease.

Iasemi's lips were becoming parched and Andromache shielded her eyes to look up at the sun. Though they were nestled amongst the stacked bundles, the sun beat down upon them relentlessly. She looked around helplessly at their meager resources for a spare scrap of cloth to hold over them, but there was nothing except Astyanax's swaddling. That contained the coins and baubles that she would cast into the water as soon as the night could cloak her disposal of them. She didn't dare risk unveiling them now, despite their somewhat secluded location. Instead, she took a fold of her gown and held it over Iasemi so that her face was somewhat sheltered.

They remained like that for some time, although Andromache had no firm notion of how many minutes – or, indeed, hours – had passed. Astyanax began to fuss quietly and Andromache felt her son's swaddling. He did not appear to need changing, which alarmed her. She had fed him soon after coming aboard, but he had not suckled long. In fact, she had noticed her milk was quickly drying up. None of them had eaten well since their escape from Troy, and the months of siege had affected everyone's well-being in a myriad of ways. It was finally taking a toll. As she thought about food, Andromache's stomach growled miserably. In an effort to distract herself as well as Astyanax, she held him to her breast and urged to him drink.

What could she say that would change the captain's mind about taking her son's life? That he was the son of a god? That she, a poor wife, had captured the eye of an immortal and this boy was the fruit of it? Half-divinity made no one exempt, for many sons of Troy had claimed Olympian blood, trumpeted the claims in the decorations on their shields or armor, and yet they had been slaughtered in the dust with the same lack of mercy as had the full-blooded sons of mortals.

The more she thought and devised, the more impractical the ideas became, until Andromache bent double over her son and wept burning tears. Tomorrow the Myrmidon would take him from her and do any one of a number of things: strangle, stab, drown, or whatever other atrocities a monster would bring down upon a life barely lived. A life whose only crime was the _inconvenience_ of living. If he knew that the child was the blood of Hector, Tamer of Horses, she would have understood the desire – even the necessity – to kill him.

"Mistress…"

Andromache raised her head and saw Iasemi feebly raising a hand and regarding her with a bald plea for help. Realizing that she had not been attentive in keeping the girl shielded from the sun, Andromache hastily took up a fold of her gown and was about to resume the makeshift arrangement when Iasemi shook her head.

"My arm…is worse. It feels…"

Andromache swept a hand across her cheeks and nose and tried to summon her earlier smile, when Iasemi had first stirred from sleep. "Hush, now. We—we'll find you some help. The captain came here while you were still unconscious, and he is concerned about your injury." Telling such a lie shamed her, but if Iasemi could gain even a moment's comfort from it, then perhaps it was not so grievous.

Iasemi made move to speak again, but the words caught in her throat and she began to cough. The girl's lips had dried and the symptoms of extreme thirst were reappearing. Andromache dreaded leaving this small sanctuary to renew attention to her presence, but there had to be an amphora of fresh water on the deck. If Iasemi didn't drink something soon, she would die. Who knew what poisons from her injury were running rampant throughout her body? But only the gods knew if Iasemi's life was already doomed.

Crawling gently over Iasemi, Andromache emerged onto the deck and held onto the ropes of the bundles to steady herself on shaky feet. From this unobtrusive position, she surveyed the ship, eyes searching for a large amphora or even a bucket that could conceivably be used for the vital fresh water on a sea voyage.

Now that she was standing, she could see the view from the stern and noted that there were seven other Myrmidon ships trailing in the wake of the lead vessel. Andromache recalled there being many more landing on the beaches of Troy but, apparently, the bonds war had forged among this mercenary race had dissolved upon the death of their bloodthirsty hero and they had scattered across the Aegean, bound for…where? Andromache could see little difference where her journey ended. Slavery was slavery.

Soon Andromache espied an enormous red clay amphora lashed to the base of the mast. Dangling from one of the handles was a small wooden cup. She needed no further evidence that she had found what she sought.

She advanced to the amphora quickly, but not so fast that a flurry of movement would draw immediate attention. All but a few of the soldiers on deck were manning the oars and their backs faced her, so she felt confident at accomplishing her task without being confronted or harassed.

One arm was occupied with Astyanax while her other hand fumbled at the loose knot around the amphora handle. In quick order, the cup was free, the lid was removed, and Andromache was feeling the soothing liquid bathe her hand as she scooped up a full measure of water. Her own thirst demanded to be sated, and she brought the cup to her lips, downing it as fast as her throat would allow. Some of it ran over her chin and down her chest, offering some respite from the heat.

She had just refilled the cup, restored the lid, and was about to turn back towards where Iasemi lay when a torso emerged from the cabin below deck. It was the Myrmidon captain, and Andromache felt herself go cold with dread.

There was no opportunity for her to rush back to her enclave, for he saw her almost immediately after she him. His look of surprise faded into consternation and his eyes glinted in warning that she had trespassed beyond her appointed boundaries.

"My servant," Andromache blurted. "She needs water." At the same time, she tucked Astyanax tighter to her side when she saw those unsettling pale eyes flit to the baby. Before he could either give leave or order her to drop the water, she turned and darted back to Iasemi. If he was indeed of a disposition to deny a suffering woman water, perhaps she could get a few drops into Iasemi's mouth before he overtook her.

She had just lifted up Iasemi's head and brought the cup to her lips when Andromache felt the planks beneath her sink slightly as they suddenly bore more weight. Her jaw went rigid as she kept the cup tilted to the girl's mouth. He would have to wrest it from her if he wanted it. The growing realization in Iasemi's movements that she was being given water filled Andromache with hope that the poor servant had not become irretrievably delirious. Iasemi hadn't opened her eyes yet, but one blessing at a time…

To her surprise, he allowed her to tend to Iasemi's thirst until the girl turned her head away, still only semi-conscious. When the Myrmidon did speak, his tone was impassive. "She won't last the voyage."

It was on Andromache's tongue to ask him if that was an opinion or a pronouncement, but she remained silent, uncertain if she could keep the bitterness out of her voice.

He startled her when he crouched on his heels beside her and reached out a hand to gently prod Iasemi's swollen shoulder. Andromache set the cup aside and watched him make his observations.

Finally, the tension became unbearable. "Can she be healed?" she asked.

Again, his blue eyes settled on her, this time in curiosity. "You are very concerned over a slave."

Andromache's fingers played nervously against each other. "She helped my son and I through times when I might have given up. I owe her much." She spoke true. The unprepossessing girl had shouldered enough of the burden of flight so that she herself hadn't felt so overwhelmed, even at the height of disagreements with Paris. "We are both slaves now," she added, "so it isn't so odd that I am concerned about her."

This last comment seemed to fall on deaf ears, for he gave no indication he heard her. Instead, he hooked his hands under Iasemi's arms and dragged her out into the open on the deck.

"What are you doing?" Andromache demanded, certain that Iasemi had been silently declared broken and useless, to be tossed overboard at the quickest convenience.

"You want her healed, merchant's wife," was his reply. "She can be."

Andromache had little time to offer thanks or ask any more questions, for the Myrmidon scooped up the insensible slave and proceeded towards the hatch into the cabin below deck. Though dread still mingled with hope, she grabbed Astyanax and followed him into the dim hull.

* * *

I've appreciated your reviews very much! I hope the fic is continuing to be interesting. Since there's no Hector or Achilles/Briseis in it, it doesn't fit into the typical categories of the fandom so there are few places I can flog it. So I really appreciate the small audience I have all the more. In a few chapters I'm intending to check in on Paris and Helen. The author will now work on a crash course in Ancient Egypt.  



	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

After months and years of warfare, spanning lightning-quick raids and protracted sieges, Eudorus felt weary. Though it had always been his intention to find fortune as a soldier through whatever means, the constant marauding, even under such a capable commander as Achilles, had taken a toll he was only beginning to comprehend. He didn't necessarily feel old, as more…saturated with experience

The young lion Achilles had seen to it that every man under his command had ample opportunities to show his mettle, and to those who had proved most capable and valorous went the honor of subordinate captaincies. To him, Eudorus, had gone the second company, ten ships bearing fifty men each. He had commanded this unit through other mercenary enterprises led by Achilles and, later, to Troy's shores.

Truly, the supposed cause of the war against Troy – the monumental grievance suffered by Atreus' sons that could only be quenched by the annihilation of the city – was of no concern to Eudorus. The city was merely a rich treasure to be plundered. Gold, grain, and girls, to be consumed or sold however he saw fit. Each man was master of his own spoils, unless rank stupidity demanded a penalty, such as he had levied on the heads of his men earlier that day. It was regrettable that he had had to take such an action, but these rare lapses only increased the loyalty he commanded. Through harsh but fair means, these men had become his almost as thoroughly as they all had been Achilles'.

It was a testimony to his leadership that the absence of Achilles, that all-driving force, had not seen the Myrmidons fall into a thousand fragments. Of the ten ships that he had commanded on the departure for Troy, all but two were still with him, and though the missing ones had fallen to the flaming missiles of Trojan raids, the one hundred men they had carried were not similarly lost. Less than half remained, shoved aboard the vessels that now lurched across the sea.

This voyage was allowing him some well-needed time to ponder what lay ahead for him and his men. Despite the comfortable fit of the mantle of leadership around his shoulders, he wondered if he could safely set it aside, at least for a time. Prior to their departure from the Greek mainland, Achilles had gifted him with a prime stretch of land from his own vast holdings in Pthia. Arable, and with a hilly region ideal for defense, Eudorus would have wept at the generosity of such a gesture, had he not been very aware of his commander's impatience to bestow and move on.

This plan to take momentary respite from the ceaseless marauding included his men, or those among them of like ambition. There was more land than he and his future household of slaves could till. It could be divided generously among ten to fifteen others. It was Eudorus' intention that those ten to fifteen men be loyal and wealthy, but not more so than he. One must look to preserving a position, after all. With care and a sharp eye, that region of Pthia would become a formidable foe, perhaps enough to avert many notions of raid and conquest by covetous neighbors. Such as Agamemnon, for one. The Mycenaean king no doubt had plans, now that Troy had fallen, and Eudorus would not suffer to be made a pawn or victim at those grasping hands.

These were the thoughts that marched through the mind of Achilles' loyal captain as he sat upon a stool, casually leaning one cheek against his knuckles. A finger made invisible marks against the worn but serviceable table as he ticked up the number of slaves, grain, oxen, and other logistical concerns every aspiring soldier-farmer must consider.

A sharp gasp of pain snapped him out of his contemplation and he glanced over at the two figures on the other side of the cramped cabin. The wounded servant still lay upon the tattered fur where he had placed her, and she now writhed in the grip of the pain that unconsciousness had previously kept at bay. Her shoulder had been severely dislocated, but Eudorus had found it relatively simple to shove back into place. The other woman, the merchant's widow, had flinched and brought a hand to her mouth in revulsion at the sickening crunch, but he had done such a procedure several times during battle or in the camp afterwards to fellow soldiers who, but for that injury, were still fit to fight. He had been gentler with this one, however. It would do him and his plans for a thriving home no good to have attempted to mend her shoulder, only to break her arm with excessive pressure. This war had earned him more gold and goods than human flesh, and he needed all the slaves he could get.

He watched the widow bend over the perspiring girl and coldly considered what he saw. Though tall and slender, she was strong. He had seen her cart the robust brat about as if he weighed no more than a feather, and her will was not lacking in fortitude. He needed strong slaves, not frail ones whose minds would break under the yoke of captivity, and this widow appeared as if she would survive, if not exactly thrive. Her bearing and words prompted a wisp of suspicion that she had wed beneath her, that she had come of finer stock than her husband. No merchant he had ever encountered had been anything but fat, greedy, and obnoxious, but even if luxury was not unknown to her, she didn't display the symptoms openly. It was a fortunate catch, and Eudorus soon found himself sizing up the brat in a similar manner.

Though he had effectively killed it on the beach they had left behind, with its life extended only one day, he wondered if he had been too hasty. It lay on the floor beside its mother, staring up at the cabin ceiling with wide, curious eyes. The lantern that sat on the table before him burned bright enough to illuminate the trio of captives, and Eudorus could see two fists of impressive size for an infant gripping the edge of the swaddling as of one manning the reins of ox and plow. Or, perhaps, of a chariot. A pity the child would never experience either, and a misfortune for both of them that the brat was not more grown. Were he but ten or twelve years older, sparing his life would have been decided in short order. Children of that age had their uses, strong enough to do light labor in the field or home.

Eudorus' attention turned from the admirably quiet infant to the groaning slave. Her moment of disoriented panic, eyes rolling wildly to the four corners of her surroundings, had passed and she was responding to the damp cloth the widow kept applying to her brow. He would not say so out loud, but he was apprehensive about the girl's prospects for complete recovery, despite his assertion earlier that she could be healed. There was always a chance that a simple and usually successful procedure could fail. A deformed or useless arm wouldn't bar the slave from all labor, but Eudorus felt pressed enough to succeed in his new venture to resent any special considerations.

The girl was gradually gaining fuller consciousness as either the pain eased or she exerted the will to ignore it. Soon, her moving lips ceased with their plaintive moans and instead formed words.

"I was looking for wood, Mistress. The fire had died and…"

Eudorus watched as the other woman wrung out the rag and regarded her former servant with a sad smile that, in the meager light, he decided was forced. "Any wood you found would have been wet and impossible to burn."

Though his ears had detected no recrimination, the slave reacted as if there had been, her face paling as the realization of what her well-intentioned task had brought about dawned fully. Her shocked expression suddenly crumbled and a thin wail preceded a series of racking sobs. "I'm sorry, so sorry, so…" she babbled hoarsely, before finally turning her head away in visible shame, her tears subsiding but no less irritating to his weary senses.

It was on his tongue to castigate the widow to silence the wretched girl when the woman clenched the wet rag so tightly, the bones stood out on the back of her hand in excruciatingly stark relief. With her other hand, which shook, she brushed the girl's damp locks from her brow. "Shhhh, Iasemi," she whispered. "Shhhh, don't think on it."

Eudorus listened, detecting a slight tremor that increased with each plea to be calm until it seemed the widow was urging herself to find a shred of tranquility, despite a conviction there was none. For the love of Zeus, he thought, women were troublesome things! Tears and fears and crippling dread. An endless cycle of moans and overwrought sorrow.

The sooner they resigned themselves to Fate, the easier the transition. Or so he felt. It was all quite practical when one thought about it. Would that women were not necessary for so many things, but Achilles' gift of land would remain an unproductive patch without female hands working the soil and tending the thousand menial tasks of hearth and home.

He soon realized that the slave girl's whimpers and sobs had ceased completely, and her chest was rhythmically rising and falling. At last. With luck, the girl would have improved sense and health by dawn. As for him, he looked forward to some well-deserved rest.

Without a word, he rose from the crude stood and took up the lantern. The light lurched around the hold and he saw the widow shield her eyes from the sudden glare that met them, though she was not so blinded that she did not fumble in snatching up her brat as he approached.

"Think you I cannot wait to dispose of him?" he snapped, his impatience surprising him. With a jerk of his head towards the far corner of the cramped quarters, he added a curt "Over there."

Still clasping the child to her, she craned her neck in the direction he had indicated, returning her gaze to stare at him dumbly. He gripped her lightly at the elbow and she slowly got to her feet. He raised his lantern higher, his knuckles brushing the low ceiling. It was down here where the precious metals and jewels were stored, safe from any storm swell that might knock those goods on deck into the sea. But among the glittering gold and fiery bronze lay the comfort of a pallet of furs.

Beside him, the woman did not gasp or make any struggle, but he felt her limb go rigid in his grip. Her steps were halting and leaden as he steered her among the tripods and sacks, over the shields and under the sheathed swords that dangled from their hooks above. The spoils were not all his, but his share was enough to fill him with satisfaction and pride. It was no doubt foolish, but he would endure the stale and stuffy heat down here in order to be among these marks of his success, rather than sleep on the deck with the other men in the cool, comfortable air.

He set the lantern down on the floor beside the bed, taking care not to let the flame get close to the fur. With a barely suppressed groan, he lowered himself down onto the hides, rolling onto his back with one leg bent and the other stretched out full. He winced as the sore thigh muscle – caused by a heavy blow to his leg armor from the broken shaft of a spear wielded like a club – began to throb from the change in position. It had not troubled him much that day, but like many irritations, it was apparently going to surface when he desired rest. As he shifted in discomfort, he looked up at the widow, who still stood beside the bed, the infant held stiffly in her arms.

"Lay down," he said, not as impatient as before, but no less weary. "Or stand all night, if you prefer."

The woman instead looked up at the ceiling, her eyes fixed on one of the swords won from the enemy.

"I'd not even think it," he said, tone warning. "Achilles slept with a blade beneath his head, and I am no different."

"But did he always use it, even on women?" she asked.

The combined manner in how she looked at him as she asked the question made his nerves jump slightly. It seemed she already knew the answer, but merely asked it to see if he would be truthful.

"When it suited him," he replied levelly.

Her spine stiffened and her already considerable height grew. But she did not move to lie elsewhere or take the empty space beside him. She continued to stare down at him, but her body began to twist slightly in that uniquely maternal way when a baby occupies a mother's arms. He had not seen such behavior with his own mother, for she had relinquished him to her father soon after he was born, and of siblings he had none.

The reason why the dancing girl Polymele had seen fit to rid herself of her son had never been fully explained to him. He suspected many things, but had given voice to none. After some time, it no longer mattered. His grandfather raised and loved him as he would have his own, and had been the one to inform him that he was the bastard get of an immortal. One day, after dancing in a ceremony to Artemis, Polymele had captured the eye of the wandering winged messenger Hermes, and their single coupling had produced him, Eudorus.

Such tales had fascinated him as a boy, kept him quiet and content, opening up his mind and will to other things such as winning the foot races and practice competitions with the other boys. But though his own mother had become only a vague memory, he had seen the numerous slaves with their inevitable broods, some fathered by his guardian and grandparent, and to a one they had twisted with their babes on their hips, just as this widow did now. Odd. He hadn't thought of the old man and that raucous household for what seemed an eternity. As if in complete understanding of what he was thinking, the infant at that moment stirred and craned his neck around to stare at him with wide, brown eyes.

"Lay down," he said quickly, forcibly breaking eye contact with the child. "It's well past dusk and your slave will be sleeping the night through. The waters are calm and my soldiers are excellent sailors."

"What of the other women?" she asked, still not moving. "The ones I saw tied together on the deck? Do they have similar luxuries?"

Eudorus spread his hands in invitation. "You can join them if you like. Though somehow I feel you would be wise to keep distance between yourself and Tydeus. He's doesn't much like you."

"He was tossing my baby around like chaff in the wind," she said tightly. "All of them were. And he was in my way. I had no knife, no sword. What else could I have used to wound him except my own hands?" Her tone was become more defiant with each word.

"No weapon at all," he retorted, "but common sense. That would have served you better. It's truly a marvel that he didn't kill you where you stood."

"You appeared. That put an end to it. The men obey you, for which I am…grateful." The word came to her lips hesitatingly, and Eudorus heard the resentment that infused every syllable.

There was a soft thud on the planks above them and her head snapped upwards. Though the hold was filled with the creaks of the hull and the sound of the water that surrounded them, it was not so loud that the distinctive grunts, cries, and struggles of forced copulating were smothered.

Eudorus gestured to the unseen activity above them. "Obey me, yes. But there are some things the men will have, and I don't deny them." He paused. "So, do you choose to stay here?"

She shifted from one foot to another, visibly frightened that the same fate awaited her no matter where she went. He could see the fear alight in her eyes. If it wouldn't diminish whatever control he exerted over her simply by virtue of being of unknown temperament and potentially cruel, he would confess that he was not inclined to waste his strength on a senseless rut. Returning home…that was his only concern now. But let her remain nervous and cowed. It would be easier to manage her that way. To his mind, Achilles had had nothing but trouble on his hands with that Trojan priestess, and Eudorus regretted that he had been the one to bring her to him. But the girl had been defiant, kicking and screaming, and that was the kind Achilles preferred…

Slowly she skirted the hides, her eyes never leaving him. With numbed grace, she knelt on the coarse fur. He said nothing, only watched her as she uneasily shifted her baby from one arm to the other. "I-I would not have my son see his mother—"

Eudorus' response was to reach beneath his pillow and withdraw the promised knife, turning it so that she could see the honed blade that would cut her throat from gullet to spine with ease. "And I would not have my men without their captain," he said. "Understood?" He lowered the knife and looked down at the infant. "To spare him your humiliation, I would have to kill him now. And I said one day, woman. So he'll have his full day."

Without another look or word, he turned and extinguished the lantern, leaving her still perched on her knees in the darkness. Though he made an effort to convey that he had quickly succumbed to sleep, he remained aware of every sound she made. For long minutes, she moved not a whit, obviously expecting him to attack her. Then, gradually, and with gaining confidence, the hides shifted and rippled beside him as she lay down. His own exhaustion was nipping at him to rest completely, and he finally closed his eyes. Sleep came, but just before that heavy weight settled over his body and mind, he felt a small hand brush his back, curious fingers grabbing at his tunic. There followed a gasp and hushed admonition. A larger hand pried the fingers away with obvious care to not waken, not anger, him.

Then both were gone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Andromache woke with a start, the screams of Troy's people resounding in her ears. She brought a hand to her mouth, afraid that she had cried out herself. Her throat was rigid and sore, as though ripped raw by the hoarsest screams of terror. Bare seconds elapsed before she winced and sank back onto the hides. Every muscle in her body seemed aflame, and she realized that she had been mute but agonizingly tense in her sleep.

She brought her hands to her face. They came away wet, and as she grimaced, she felt her cheeks tug against the dried salty trails of tears. But what now covered her was a cloying sheen of perspiration, as she quickly discovered when she tried to shift in an effort to ease her aching muscles and found herself fighting against the damp and clinging fabric of her dress. The air was likewise suffocating, the tight and narrow hold nearly bursting with the collective breaths of four people.

The beating of her own heart, furiously pounding in her ears when she awoke, had gradually eased into a dull rhythm and her chest felt less painful than before. She could now hear sounds other than the inner workings of her own body. The hull creaked and groaned as it continued to ply the sea, rocking gently against the waves, as though attempting to soothe her. The waters had been tame throughout the night; not once could she remember waking.

She turned onto her side, curling up defensively around where Astyanax lay. He hadn't fussed all night, at least not enough to wake her. If he had, she was certain the Myrmidon would have deemed it a suitable excuse to dispose of him without delay, his promise of one full day to the contrary.

The infant stirred and squirmed at his mother's closeness and threw out a fist that, in the darkness, Andromache couldn't dodge. Her mouth received a direct hit and she cried out in surprise. "As―!" she began to admonish.

She froze, eyes painfully wide and staring at the invisible man who lay beside her. She hadn't heard his breathing, so perhaps he had left to return to the deck of the ship, but there were still so many unfamiliar sounds and noises that rang and swam in her ears. She had never been stuffed in a cargo hold before, always sitting or standing on deck in the splendour of her station. The sea sounded like a completely different creature when not imprisoned down here.

No matter whether he was there or not, she thought. Her wits were not about her, and she could very well have consigned them all to death by that careless syllable. She was not entirely confident she had convinced him she was a fleeing widow. His eyes, that unsettling blue like ice, seemed to demand more to assuage his suspicions. She had seen a glimmer in them, a hint of calculation devoid of lust. Something she had done or said, or some stray movement by Astyanax, had prompted him to see through her disguise and recognize something else beneath.

Andromache grasped Astyanax's arm before he could unknowingly hit her again. With her other hand, she reached it out slowly towards the dark space before her. All she would need was the lightest brush of her fingers against the linen of his tunic to settle her fears about whether he was there or not. She had done much the same countless times, on those evenings before battles or weeks-long departures on official business, to reassure herself of Hector's presence. Never had she woken him. Never had he ever been aware of her ritual. She felt her conscience prick at defiling it by doing the same to another, but she pushed it to the back of her mind.

She flinched as sudden brightness met her eyes, and before she could shield them, she heard a soft laugh.

"Reaching out for me, eh?" the Myrmidon continued to chuckle. "I'd have obliged you last night, were it not for your concern for your son."

Andromache snatched her hand away, feeling her cheeks flush hotly in embarrassment. How humiliating to be caught thus, acting like an eager concubine in the eyes of this coarse and bloody butcher.

"I was but determining if I would have some final moments alone with my son," she snapped, feeling her shame flare into anger.

The halo of lantern light bobbed and swayed, and her eyes had grown accustomed to the illumination to discern that he was crouched beside the hides, the source of light dangling from one hand. Her vision was still somewhat blurred from sleep, but she thought he nodded slowly at her blunt reminder of the crime before him. Yet he said nothing, and Andromache pulled Astyanax closer to her in a defensive reflex. The Myrmidon had said a full day, but when would that end? Now?

"Come," he said, gesturing sharply. "We're going on deck. It's dawn and there's business to tend."

She saw the lantern light glint off the sword he had already donned about his waist and felt her heart crushed of all hope. The day had come. All that was left of Hector would be gone in an instant. Indeed, all that was left of her…gone. It had taken many years of marriage to think of herself as Andromache of Troy, Hector's Andromache, and in a rushing wave that consumed her, she regretted every minute she had wasted in not becoming his more fully and quickly, regretted their joined failure to conceive sooner. Trudging across the wastes with Paris and Helen, it had been so easy to be strong amidst such weakness, but now, adrift and bereft, she could not continue.

Pride quickly followed in hope's wake, tears stinging her eyes. "Please…please, don't do this. Don't kill him!"

The Myrmidon rose to his feet quickly and stared down at her mutely, eyes widened in surprise before narrowing with annoyance. "It was your plea that saved him the first time. And a second. If you think my mercy is infinite, you're welcome to test it." He gestured behind him with a snap of his head. "Your son isn't nearly dead yet, but your servant could well be if you continue to blubber on about things beyond your control."

Andromache dragged a hand across her nose and wiped at her eyes as, with one arm still tight around Astyanax, she slid across the hides toward him. When she struggled to her feet, the hem of her dress caught beneath her feet and she staggered. Suddenly an arm was around her, preventing her from pitching forward.

She regained her balance, though her head still reeled. Swaying on her feet, she gradually became aware that she only stood upright through the Myrmidon's continuing embrace. She flinched from the contact and, putting a hand on his forearm, she shoved it away from her, though she did not look at him as she did so. Instead, she picked her way as best she could through the narrow path between the trophies and treasures in the semi-darkness, her free hand wiping away the evidence of her weakness. When she reached where Iasemi lay, she knelt down beside her.

The lantern light was soon warm on her back, and the girl's face was visible. Her skin glistened with sweat, though the sweltering temperature in the hold could be as responsible for that as a fever. The water in the bowl was warm, but she took up the cloth, wet it, and wiped Iasemi's face, neck, and every piece of exposed flesh. The girl did not move, though her chest still rose and fell. The cadence was slow and calm, giving Andromache confidence that she had survived the worst of it.

"Is she well?"

Andromache paused in her ministrations. She thought she had heard real concern in his tone, and it puzzled her. It was still a shock to her that Iasemi hadn't been thrown overboard. She had expected little more from any Myrmidon. Mercenaries carried no more weight than necessary, and certainly not a broken and ailing slave.

She pushed aside her curiosity for the moment. "Yes," she told him. "I am no healer, but the rest appears to have done her good."

He set the lantern down on the floor beside her. "Look to her for a while longer," he said. "Then come on deck for fresh air. I want you healthy."

"What of her?" Andromache heard herself demanding. "She needs it more than I."

He didn't reply, only turned and left the cabin by scaling the ladder to the upper deck. Andromache hissed in disgust and returned to Iasemi. "We'll survive somehow," she told the girl, continuing to bathe her brow. "If we can't escape, then we'll busy him with our presence." The thought cheered her slightly, giving her something to grasp onto when her son was no longer there.

Iasemi's eyes fluttered and she slowly came to her senses. "Where are we, mistress?" she whispered thickly.

"Closer to Greece, I presume," she replied, trying to keep her tone light. "We've been sailing all night."

"I thought I might have died."

Andromache shook her head. "I think you are quite safe, Iasemi. Though our kind captor pretends otherwise." She glanced over her shoulder at where the Myrmidon had left. "He has much on his mind, I feel, and I don't believe it is entirely on account that he has lost his commander." Biting her lip in thought, she turned back to Iasemi. "No doubt with Troy in Agamemnon's pile of victories," she whispered, "he thinks that vile king will be looking to conquer the rest of the Greek mainland."

"But he's dead," Iasemi pointed out. "The princess Briseis killed him."

"Yes," Andromache said with great satisfaction, "but he is not aware of it, and I can say nothing. Let him be tormented, as he is tormenting me."

Iasemi's eyes went to Astyanax. "How is His Majesty?"

Andromache found herself smiling, even though Iasemi had lapsed by recognizing his royal blood. "Admirably well, considering. I envy him his ignorance about what is going on. No doubt he thinks it all an adventure."

"Do you wish me to change him?"

"Of course not! You are in no condition to do anything right now." She sniffed tentatively. "And your nose seems to be sharper than mine at the moment. This stale air and those gamy hides have filled my head with little else." She set Astyanax on the floor beside her and filled a small cup with water. Soon after she had begun tending Iasemi the previous day, the Myrmidon had given her a small pot of fresh water for drinking. It was unappealingly warm, but welcome. Cradling Iasemi's neck in her hand, she urged the girl to drink as much as she wanted and then gently lay her head back down.

"Yes, this hide beneath me smells horrid," Iasemi said. "If I had been well, I don't think I would have been able to sleep on it at all."

"Oh yes, you could," Andromache smiled. "They _all_ smell bad, but I was so weary I went to sleep nearly immediately."

Iasemi's eyes widened and Andromache realized that the girl believed her more brave and accepting of this situation than she actually was. In truth, she wanted to take up one of the swords that hung above her, race to the deck above and slay as many as she could.

But something stopped her. Above all was the life of her son. There was still a chance that he would not be slain after all. The Myrmidon captain – Eudorus was his name – had the coldest eyes she had ever seen, but he had shown more mercy than men whose eyes spat life and fire. Certainly if Tydeus had been in command, Astyanax would not now be beside her. But this Eudorus was different. He was cold, but he did not emanate hate. Could he be reasoned with? That remained to be seen, but she was not going to admit defeat yet. She had tried his mercy twice so far – a third time was not impossible. Perhaps he had done himself a disservice by putting off the deed. Apart from her outburst that morning, she felt calm and her head clear. Had he killed Astyanax on the beach, or even last night, she would be an insensible wreck, having never regained her balance. But now…

She smoothed Iasemi's hair back from her brow reassuringly and turned to Astyanax. "I don't know what I'll change you into, little sprat," she mused. "But I do know one thing I must do. Will you be fine without the lamp?" she asked Iasemi, who nodded.

Andromache retreated back towards the hides and knelt down beside them. She unwrapped Astyanax's blanket and his outer diaper to reveal the jewelry she must toss away. She noticed that an earring and a ring were missing. No matter. She would never be able to wear them again. An errant thought nagged at her to keep them for the possibility of escape and the inevitable need for money in flight. No, on second thought, retaining them could prove dangerous. Some merchants were wealthy, granted, but Andromache knew the earring and some of the other pieces were of patterns too intricate and the metal too fine and pure to escape suspicion.

She hastily cleaned Astyanax, using as much of the precious potable water as she dared, swaddled him with the outer diaper, and returned to Iasemi.

"He wants me to go above," she told the girl. "I'll attempt to rid myself of these." She tossed the jewelry in her hand as though weighing a coin pouch. "When backs are turned, into the water they'll go."

"Must you do it?"

"You wish me to keep them?" she replied, her tone reproachful at the suggestion of such folly even as her heart warred with her head to keep the precious objects. Mementos of a marriage, a life, were clasped in her palm. How could she throw that aside?

Iasemi tilted her head around to get as fair a view of the cabin as she could, given her position on the floor. "There are so many things here," she said. "Maybe they will not notice a few extra pieces of jewelry."

_Why should I give them more treasure?_ Andromache thought, and the angry question was on her lips when Iasemi interrupted her.

"Maybe there _is_ a chance of escape," she went on. "Not now or even soon, but later, and they will be there to use."

"Iasemi, it's likely that as soon as we reach whatever destination we're bound for, everything will be divided between them. The likelihood of it remaining in the captain's possession is slim. There is even no guarantee that we will remain with him for long." A sudden heave of the ship on a choppy swell made her scramble to maintain her balance. "And our safe arrival is in some doubt, it seems."

The girl's face fell in morose acceptance, the disruption failing to pierce her thoughts. "Yes, I know. It was foolish of me to hope."

"Not at all," Andromache replied kindly. "I have been trying to convince myself it's possible to keep them, too, but I don't dare. Even if they wouldn't betray us, they would still become part of their spoils. That I refuse to let happen. I'd rather rob them of some valuable trinket should the time come to escape."

Another swell buffeted the ship and Andromache was forced to lunge for something to keep herself upright. The jewels flew from her hand as she grasped the beam above her, and a curse escaped her lips. "Haven't they the sense to stay out of each others' wakes?" she snapped, giving the unseen men above her a baleful glare. Though she glanced at the scattered ornaments anxiously, she kept still. certain there would be another toss and twist on the unsettled sea.

The hatch lid clattered as it fell back on its hinges and a shaft of light appeared. As though prodded by a hot iron, Andromache fell to her knees and scrambled about on one hand – the other occupied by Astyanax – scooping up the loose baubles. The hollow sound of leather sandals on the worn slats of the ladder seemed to get closer, and Andromache found herself counting them even as she tried to pick up the jewelry. Three…four…five… There couldn't be more than six steps. Her position was hidden from view of the hatch, giving her perhaps a few more seconds.

She righted on her heels, her fist full of gold, and looked around for the nearest hiding place. Her eyes caught sight of a small wooden chest perched among the other spoils, a box measuring as long as her fingertip to her elbow in length. The hasp was loose; there was no lock. She lurched to her feet and fumbled at the lid.

"Damn it, woman," she heard the Myrmidon growl as he huffed upon reaching the bottom of the ladder. "I ordered you to get on deck."

Andromache's motions were so violent, the lid flew back on its leather hinges and struck a shield mounted on the wall behind it, sending a clang throughout the small cabin. Her hand was poised to throw her jewelry into the box when she realized it already contained gold and adornments. But rather than relief, she felt her chest clench at what lay on top, so serenely, as though it had only recently been removed to be gazed at and admired. Or, rather, its uniqueness and worth gloated over.

Her hands now shook and her jewels tumbled from her fingers to join the others, plinking forlornly as they were sent to an uncertain fate of their own.

"Get away from that!" came the Myrmidon's terse order.

Andromache turned and saw him glaring at her in suspicion. "I touched nothing," she said icily, "for none of it is mine."

He could not stride. The quarters were too cramped, but he approached her as fast as he was able. He slammed shut the lid of the small casket with such suddenness that Andromache snatched her hand away just in time to spare her fingers a crushing blow.

His eyes glinted in distrust. Without a word, he grabbed her hand and pried her fingers apart. Barely had she a moment to transfer Astyanax from one arm to the other before he similarly inspected her left hand. Rather than feeling relief, her stomach lurched as those eyes settled once more upon her son. The sensation was soon replaced by dread when his hand went towards Astyanax.

"He certainly took nothing," she said tightly.

"But others might have him carry what they stole." He held out his other hand, forming a cradle into which he silently demanded she place the baby.

Andromache studied the Myrmidon's face, trying to muzzle her rage. Her mind continued to dwell on the object laying in the darkness with her own jewelry. When had this man acquired it? Had he been the one to rip it from her mother's hair?

She remembered the day news had come to Troy through its network of spies that Thebe had fallen, sacked by Achilles and his marauding band. Rumor had it that pique at Agamemnon had driven the brash hero to abandon the rest of the Greek army for these solo raids in order to accumulate spoils, a competition between the two of who could possess more.

Though rumor also asserted that Achilles had spared her mother, leaving Thebe with its queen but robbing it of king and princes, Andromache found little comfort in it. Very likely she would never see mother or city again. All she had was an ornamental comb, gold-gilt tortoiseshell bearing two marks: that of the craftsman, and her own symbol she had tapped into the gold herself. It had been a condition of her deal with the artisan. Yet even so, now it was not hers to look upon whenever she pleased. An heirloom denied a rightful heir.

The Myrmidon glowered at the delay, and Andromache realized she had tarried too long in her thoughts, spending his scarce good graces foolishly. Everything within her recoiled at placing Astyanax in those arms, to literally deliver Hector's son into the hands of the enemy. But she swallowed the bile from her stomach and suppressed her revulsion. As gently as she could, she laid her boy across the broad, coarse palms.

As the soldier went about patting Astyanax around the rump, ear cocked as though to catch a stray cry of help from his stolen gold, Andromache tried to remain impassive, tried to give him no reason to suspect she had anything to hide.

But she was puzzled when his inspection turned up nothing and his eyes clouded in…disappointment? What man was this? He would rather catch a person in a lie so he could dispatch punishment?

As silently as he had done, she held out her arms to receive Astyanax. As much as she longed to have him safely in her embrace, she was curious as to what the Myrmidon would do, not that he had the baby fully in his power. After all the threats and casual reminders that death _would_ come, would he follow through at this moment?

She watched him turn Astyanax around like some fascinating object. His expression had faded from disappointment to calculation. But Andromache again had a nagging feeling that cruelty did not motivate him. As she had mused to Iasemi earlier, so many wrongs could have befallen them since their capture. Yet their confinement had merely been uncomfortable, not humiliating, unlike the poor women who had been left on the deck above. He had not forced her, though he had left room for doubt that he would do it at his pleasure; Iasemi had not been tossed overboard to feed the fishes; and Astyanax was alive. Wonderfully alive.

"He's strong."

Andromache started at the Myrmidon's observation, the words themselves and the tone in which he delivered them wholly unexpected. She watched, desperately trying to smother the soaring of her heart as the Greek shifted Astyanax into a more congenial position.

"He is," she replied simply, still refraining from letting hope show too plainly.

"In mind as well as body, I suspect," he continued. "He surprises me with his endurance." Chucking him under the chin, the Myrmidon laughed softly, as though trying to prompt her son to join him in his mirth.

Andromache found the sight too painful to look upon. It was too intimate, too familiar. She would never see Hector adore their son again. Only in her memories, and all memories faded over time. She would forget the curling of his locks, the exact lilt of his voice when he spoke her name, the details of the many fables he had entertained Astyanax with. Like a pin prick in a waterskin, she wouldn't realize her memories were slowly slipping away until one day she reached for a remembrance and found it empty, dry, uncertain.

Though the Myrmidon's attention still seemed rapt, Andromache hastened to him and plucked Astyanax from his surprised arms. "Please, if you're going to kill him, have done with it. I beg you." She touched her forehead to Astyanax's and closed her eyes. "Do it fast."

She waited, bracing herself for the moment when she would feel Astyanax pried from her arms. But it did not come.

"Open your eyes."

She obeyed, though she was afraid to look at him. From his voice alone, she couldn't tell what his verdict was. The words had been insistent, but not hard or cruel.

"It is pleases you, then he'll live." Before Andromache could gather her wits to voice the incoherent gratitude that churned within her, he went on. "He is truly remarkable, and though it might be the practice of others to eradicate anyone who shows strength, it is not mine." His eyes then hardened noticeably. "Don't make me regret my charity. I will not tolerate dangerous insubordination, in man or child. Now, I order you to go aloft."

"Iasemi—"

"I'll send one of the women down to tend her."

Andromache nodded stiffly, her mind barely comprehending at what had just happened. As simply as he could take her son's life, he had just as simply spared it. She had agonized and dreaded, wept and seethed, so sure death would come. She had harbored hope, nursed confidence, but she was discovering that she had not let it delve as deeply as sorrow. Now she was forced to scramble to this new reality. Had she really reconciled herself to losing him so much?

He stepped aside and motioned for her to walk past him. Clearly, he did not trust her to follow his order of her own free will.

With Astyanax warm and now safe, Andromache would gladly obey any command. She brushed past the Myrmidon, his presence no longer as vile as before. As she made her way to the narrow ladder, her mind swam with questions. What had prompted this change of mind? What had she done or said? Was this another manifestation of the goddess Artemis? Had she now joined those whose steps were dogged by an immortal? With a passing cringe at the impiety of it, she thought that if it were so, there were troubling times ahead. Few mortals had fared well when they were recipients of concern by one of Zeus' brood.

She paused at the foot of the ladder to make certain Astyanax was secure before she mounted it. He was staring up at her, the corners of his mouth curving into plump dimples. His smile prompted her to return it.

_It's you I should be asking_, she thought. _What did **you** do to the Myrmidon?_

_

* * *

_  
**Next chapter: Checking in on Paris and Helen. Are they going to get on the bad side of another king? Would Pharoah want any part of their plans for Troy?**

_**Thanks for reviewing, Spider/Queen Arwen! I really appreciate you standing by this fic.**_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

The two travelers who appeared outside the walls of Pharaoh's fortified outpost at Sile prompted little curiosity at first. Positioned on the border of Egypt and the vast desert that led to Galilee, the soldiers stationed there saw many souls pass through, on foot or borne by cart or beast. Rare was the individual who appeared with malice baldly crowing in manner and expression, and rarer still were the defensive maneuvers against troublemaking neighbors to the east.

During the course of every soldier's six years of duty at Sile, anxiety was greatly outweighed by boredom, to the point where some professed a desire to see the Sinai nomads escalate their simmering nuisance to a full boil of war. At least, then, time spent in such desolation would be worthwhile.

So it was with palpable disinterest that the sentry called down to the travelers from his position on the battlements, asking their names and their business in Pharaoh's kingdom.

"In the name of Usermaatre, Son of Re and Beloved of Truth, and of Upper and Lower Egypt, Pharaoh," he intoned, "where have you come and where are you bound?"

Neither of the wayfarers immediately replied. Instead their shrouded heads bent together and bobbed in animated debate.

Though he had little else to do, the guard's patience was short and he bellowed down to the indecisive couple. "State your business, or go back to where you came."

"We seek passage!" came the sharp, halting reply. The words lay uncertain on the man's tongue, and the force with which they were spoken indicated more anxiety with a foreign language than anger.

"Passage?" the guard repeated. "We'll let you through if we believe you no threat, but there will be no escort." Despite his irritation at having to converse with yet more of these bumptious folk who seemed to spew forth from the sands, he was almost inclined to leap over the walls and join them on their road into Rameses' domain. He had been away from his home and wife for far too long, serving out the wretched sentence that was duty at Sile.

As he stood waiting for a reply, the cowled head turned upwards, and a pair of dark eyes speared him, provoking an odd sensation. He felt pity, but not the sort usually given to beggars, lepers, and those who had the air and stare of ones born to misery. Rather, he was made immediately aware that, of the two travelers, the one who spoke was newly humbled. Pride still shone brightly through his eyes and bearing.

"What is your name?" the traveler asked, the words coming more easily and his tone conversational.

"Kamakht," he replied without hesitation.

The man was silent, though he still stared up at the soldier on the walls high above him.

Kamakht shifted in a strange sensation of excitement and discomfort. He was standing opposite a man greater than himself, and no man of humble birth could deny that the presence and attention of ones higher born had a special aura that elevated and infused. At the same time, never far from his mind, was the plain reality that men like he were never looked upon by those of higher station unless they could suit a purpose.

And he, Kamakht, could allow them to proceed or turn them away, though he was not so foolish as to think no other point of entry would be sought. It was impossible to man every mile of the kingdom's boundaries. These two souls would arrive at their destination whether he permitted them or not. Coupled with the pride in the man's eyes was a glint that hinted of arrogance.

"If I let you pass," he said, "and it unfolds that you're spies, my head will part from my neck," Kamakht said with forced jollity. "What proof can you give me that you are as innocent as you'd have me believe?"

"My word should be sufficient," was the terse reply.

Kamakht twisted his neck in skepticism. "And does your companion vouch for you?" he demanded curiously. "I haven't heard one word from that quarter."

"She will vouch for me when we reach our destination," the man smoothly replied.

"She?" Kamakht was uncertain whether this fact was deliberately revealed or a slip of the tongue. He suspected the latter, for the two shrouded heads turned to one another and the silent traveler's posture became noticeably rigid. Were he able to see the woman's eyes, he suspected he would see either fright or thoughts of violence towards her loose-tongued escort.

"So why does a foreigner and his woman wish to enter Pharaoh's lands?" Kamakht asked. "Tell me quickly and your path will be clear."

After another brief consult, during which the woman's frosty demeanor was very evident, the man said, "I know of a prospect that might interest your Pharaoh."

Kamakht wondered if his earlier conclusion that the man was of the nobility in humbled circumstances had been hastily drawn. The voice was charming, the eyes honest. Too honest. He was not unfamiliar with skilled liars. Even though the majority of comers to the fortress were merchants and similarly bland persons, there were some who housed deeper ambitions that could not be masked.

He had seen men of this ilk before – sharps with a scheme to peddle and a conscience thin as a whore's nightgown. No doubt this man had little want of victims. With such a silver tongue and dark, pleading eyes, it would not surprise Kamakht if he learned the predator rarely had to exert himself in the pursuit of prey. It was an overused term among poets, but it seemed to him that this really was a matter of bees flocking to hone, sheep to a wily shepherd.

"That might interest him?" Kamakht repeated, his tone becoming scornful. "Have you any notion of our King and what he already possesses? There is no jewel too rare for him, no treasure he cannot have if he desires it. He doesn't need shoddy silver-tongued men such as you to connive trinkets for him."

The traveler bore this tongue-lashing silently. His inaction made Kamakht wonder if he had effectively squelched the man's ambition and the pathetic creature was only one step away from turning back to where he came.

But the indignation so absent in the one was fully supplied by the other. For the first time, the silent companion spoke, and her voice carried on the hot desert breeze with freezing clarity. Sure as an arrow, it struck his ears and mind with no ambiguity about her mood. It fairly dripped with pride.

"Your Pharaoh does not have _me_."

Pale, cool orbs glared at him from over the scarf that swathed the lower half of her face.

He fumbled at continued belligerence. "Pharaoh has palaces teeming with wives and concubines, so many that it would be impossible to bed them all. What's one more to him?"

When the woman's hands went to her scarf, her companion moved to prevent her from revealing herself, but a silent command halted him. He made no further move as she unwound the scarf from her face and neck.

Kamakht found himself rendered speechless, for he had never looked upon a female face so beautiful. And she was very aware of her beauty. Her expression, even from this distance, made it plain. It defied him to deny her, and her eyes glinted with the knowledge that her will would once again be obeyed.

He motioned for them to proceed on their way, already wishing he could withdraw his boast that Pharaoh had all the jewels desirable. He lacked one. The fair Helen of Sparta and Troy did not number among his wives, but this woman would make that fabled queen shake with envy.

* * *

Many cities sat along the fertile banks of the Nile, but only one held certain special favor with the current Pharaoh: Pi-Ramesse Aa-nakhtu, "House of Rameses-Great-of-Victories." The populace, however, took their king's battlefield prowess for granted and simply referred to it as Pi-Ramesse. 

It was not a new city. Avaris had once been its name, when it had belong to the Hyksos tribe. After the expulsion of that Canaanite people by Pharaoh Ahmose, it had fallen into disrepair and was only sparsely inhabited. The current Pharaoh's father, Seti, had erected a summer palace nearby, but it had done little to revive the city. Upon Seti's death, his heir had directed that the palace serve as the center of a new city. Over time, it had become robust and a desirable place to live or visit, and while those were attractive qualities, its location was what Rameses most cared about. Pharaoh now had capital cities all along the Nile that he would constantly visit and rule from. No province would be governed by men unchecked by Pharaoh. No priest could lay foundations for personal power undisturbed. Pharaoh would, and often did, arrive with barely an hour's notice, all the better to see the true state of affairs.

It was this policy, many believed, that had kept the throne tightly in Rameses' grip for nearly thirty years. The ability to sense intrigue was strong in Egypt's ruler, much more so than in prior generations.

It was not solely due to the hawkish eye he kept on men ― and women ― of rank ambition. His reign had been marked by vastly more success than failure. Even in those instances when the results were ambiguous, the temple walls brightly depicted tableaus and accounts so flattering that only a few were left scratching their heads in confusion, unsure if a battle they had witnessed had really been as crushing a victory as the inscriptions insisted.

"Can you imagine Troy with one man's face engraved on nearly every wall?" Helen asked with visible amazement as she and Paris wandered down a dusty, bustling street. "Had it been Hector's, I think the women would have sung praises from dawn to dusk."

She made no attempt to pretend she was a native and employ what little Egyptian she had gleaned from their travels. Pi-Ramesse, located on the Nile Delta, saw nearly as many foreigners as natives. As long as she kept her features hidden and didn't speak too loudly or specifically of their pasts, she felt it safe to mention Priam's city.

She looked over at Paris, who appeared not to have heard her remark. Of it he had, chose to ignore it. Helen sighed inwardly. Paris had become moody of late, despite all her attempts to keep his mind focused on one purpose: regaining Troy and sitting on the throne as its rightful King.

Helen suspected that a fair measure of her husband's melancholy came from a battling conscience. As long as Astyanax lived, Paris knew he was not truly King of anything. And the shadow of Hector also loomed. Even though his brother was in the depths of Hades' kingdom, Paris oftentimes acted like Hector stood behind his shoulder, watching his actions and disapproving of this connivance to rob Astyanax of his birthright.

No amount of subtle persuasion on her part could rid Paris of these fears. Once, in a moment of frustration, she had bluntly said it was most likely that happy family was together again. Myrmidons would not spare an infant, and Andromache was proud enough that she would have sought the sword rather than submit to captivity. Helen had discovered that when it came to the language of love, Paris liked it soft, insinuating. When more serious matters were at stake, however, brutal talk stripped of artifice succeeded more often in penetrating the willfully naïve shroud he wrapped himself in.

Helen had since ruthlessly put down her own conscience, which had once panged considerably at the thought of stepping so soon on Andromache's uncertain grave. Despite her harsh outburst of logic about Andromache's likely fate, doubt gnawed at her. In the beginning, her qualms had been prompted by the familial bonds she had shared with Hector's wife. She and Andromache had never been sisterly to one another, but there had been no hatred.

But as the days passed and her hours had been filled with silence, weary travel, and ambitious dreams, her misgivings became directed at Andromache. In her heart, Helen feared that Hector's widow would struggle, endure any hardship or humiliation to keep herself and Astyanax alive and return to Troy.

Her resentments faded significantly as she continued to absorb the sights of Pi-Ramesse. Even if Andromache could find a powerful king to serve as her champion, Pharaoh's might would dwarf him. This city spoke plainly of the immense resources Rameses had at his disposal, and Helen was fully intent on harnessing them to serve her purpose.

There were few obstacles in her path. Agamemnon, the scourge of Hera, was dead. There would be no further avenging of his brother's death. In his wake were dozens of kings and men newly-rich from Troy's spoils, but there was no single mind to unify and propel the Achaeans along one course of action. This was the advantage Helen was determined to seize upon.

And unless Andromache plunged into the Eastern realms or cobbled together a coalition of kings, there was no rival to the Pharaoh of Egypt. But first, Hector's widow would have to secure her freedom, and that had been an unknown gift under the black fist of the Myrmidons.

Helen smiled, uncaring of Paris' thoughts. She had been desolate for so long, a convenient excuse for a clash of nations and confined in a besieged city with only her foolish Paris as a confidante and companion. Though the impulse to rid herself of him was occasionally strong, Troy would be fully beyond her reach without him. But, she thought wistfully, he may not be such a bad king. He did possess strength, although it was never consistent or long-lived. His haughty behavior at the Sile fortress walls was promising, but he had idiotically let slip the fact that she was a woman and, to salvage what she could of the situation, she had been forced to reveal herself. The guard had been predictably speechless, but she felt confident that he had not recognized her. Her beauty was famed, but none abroad had ever seen her. Neither had Rameses.

Her pace quickened. She wanted to enter Pharaoh's palace tomorrow, and in that time she had to change her appearance from dusty traveller to the Queen she so yearned to become. Tomorrow she would stand in the presence of the most powerful ruler this side of the Tigris and offer him what no other man had ever refused.

Not a bit of her burned with shame at the thought.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

The lodgings were crude, but little else was of cause to complain. Considering their circumstances, Helen believed it quite fortunate that a roof was over their heads and that there was no rainstorm to test its integrity. The walls, too, were of dubious construction – chinks and gaps allowed her to see lantern light emanating from buildings across the street – but the occasional breeze turned such faults into assets. The stuffy, close room would have been intolerable otherwise.

But Helen took scant notice of the walls around her after a brief inspection upon entering the room. Her attention was instead focused on the assortment of lotions, perfumes, and paints neatly lined up before her on a worn, precarious table. If she concentrated enough, she was certain she could imagine herself sitting in her chambers in Priam's palace, Aphrodite's fragrant instruments of seduction at her fingertips and elegance surrounding her on all sides and filling her senses.

She picked up one of the small bottles and sniffed the contents again. Using nearly all the remaining baubles she had escaped with from Troy, she had prowled the local market stalls and returned with a small basket of items in preparation for her mission to Pharaoh. Some of the perfumes smelled familiar, and she wondered if the expensive scents sold to her in the past had been this same cheaper product. If so, there were several merchants who had lined their purses at Priam's expense. But Helen merely shrugged away thoughts of this thievery. It meant fewer coins that had fallen into Achaean hands to fund the war that was to come.

There was no mirror, but Helen was confident one was not necessary. Her hands deftly picked up pot after bottle, applying a drop here and a dab there until everything felt right. How many times had she sat before a piece of polished metal and set about readying herself for Paris? Countless. She had even done so for Menelaus, for in those early years of her marriage she had greatly enjoyed how besotted he became when she teasingly smiled at him with lips the color of garnet and lavender-scented curls. This routine had become second nature, almost instinctive.

Though she was satisfied, sight unseen, she slowly turned on the stool and faced Paris. "Am I beautiful?" she asked brightly.

Her brow furrowed when she realized Paris was not watching her. Instead, he was reclined on the rustic bed, his head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed. She sighed. _Asleep! And when such a crucial matter was before them!_

Reaching out a hand, she had barely brushed his leg when he said, "I'm awake, Helen."

"Then look at me." Sweetly cajoling, but insistent.

He opened his eyes and rolled his head to do as she bid. "I don't want to do this."

Helen straightened, certain she had not heard him correctly. "Don't want to?" she repeated. "Then tell me what we _should_ do." Before he could answer, she went on. "How will we retake Troy without the aid of one who has the means to fund it? Tell me that, Paris, because I would really like to know."

"There are other ways," he said stubbornly.

"Other ways than whoring myself to a king? If that is what has wounded your pride and prompted these doubts—"

"No. That is not it at all."

Helen blinked, unprepared to ever hear him utter such a sentiment. "Oh." She fumbled to regain her thoughts. "Th-then what is it?"

"I want this beggary at an end." He ran a hand through tangled curls and grabbed them in frustration. "When we appear at Pharaoh's palace tomorrow, we will be giving ourselves over to him. What is to prevent him from rendering us to the Greeks? Your charms? We may have fled Troy only to be returned to it as prisoners."

Helen felt her face aflame with a rising anger. Her ears would not believe he had just insulted her in that way. He had never spoken derisively of her beauty before. After all, her "charms" were what had spurred him to commit acts with reckless abandon, all the while believing he was justified. If anyone should be convinced of their potency, it was he.

But she ignored the slight, seizing on the meat of the matter. "And who is of any great stature among the Greeks? Who would Pharaoh deem worthy of his time to treat with? Without Agamemnon or Menelaus, they are the same scattered group of petty kings as before this whole cursed war began. Only bribes and threats formed that army."

"Odysseus—"

"More brains than wealth or influence," Helen retorted dismissively. "The tale of him feigning insanity rather than go to war is known far and abroad, and if it isn't, I will see that it is. It would be beneath Pharaoh to engage with such a coward in a matter of this importance."

She watched Paris intently to gauge how effective her words had been. There had been no artifice in what she had said. It was the plain truth as she saw it. In her years as wife and lover, at such close proximity to power, she could not believe any king would willingly treat with such an odious man as Odysseus.

Were he ever at the foot of her throne, she would not hesitate turning her rings and deliver stinging slaps across that insolent face. She had never trusted him. He could wriggle his way out of Tartarus with that tongue and wily brain. The ruse of the wooden horse – supposedly a departure offering by the Greeks to Poseidon – had no doubt been his idea. How else would all those querulous men consent to squeeze themselves into such close and intolerable quarters without Odysseus' tongue making the scheme's success seem possible? The man could talk a fish from his scales.

She glanced at the shabby walls and felt renewed anger. All of _this_ was his doing.

If Fate was kind and delivered Odysseus to her through whatever means, she would make him regret every ruse, trick, and dishonest word he had ever devised or uttered. His carefree voyage back to Ithaca would be a cherished memory after she vented her rage upon him.

She sighed softly, not wishing Paris to see how vexed she had become. "All will be well, my love," she said, leaning over the brief distance that separated them. She grasped his hand and squeezed it in encouragement. "I believe in you, Paris. Have the same faith in me."

Paris looked down at their entwined fingers. He smiled slightly, almost shyly. He had no one else to trust and both of them knew it.

* * *

It smarted Helen's pride that she had no official courier attached to the royal house of Troy to dispatch to Rameses's palace, but with nary a moment's hesitation she set about finding an adequate substitute.

A nearby marketplace produced a man of suitable dimensions. Paris had seen an exchange between him and one of the merchants, the same where Helen had bought her perfumes. The fellow's firm and arch demeanor had impressed Paris and he had followed the tall figure into a nearby counting-house. Inquiries revealed that he was an agent, tasked with the collection of debts on behalf of clients. Paris surmised that there was another rank of these collection agents, the more thuggish and unsubtle kind, but out of discretion and disinterest, he did not pursue it further.

"Urshé is my name," the agent informed Helen upon being brought to their quarters. He spoke a familiar Greek dialect, and it had been a relief to Helen that a common language had been so easy to achieve.

Helen regarded him with cool appreciation and nodded slightly to Paris that she, too, saw the same qualities that had led him to approach a total stranger with an inarguably mysterious proposition. Weak though Paris was, he could not help but judge wisely when such men appeared. This man was like Hector; his qualities shimmered about him like a beacon. He stood erect with visible pride etched in every feature. Raven black locks framed a face lined with travails that Helen could only guess at, but the eyes spoke of a spirit that all past labors were merely practice for harder times to come. Hope surged within her that his aid would not end with the simple errand to Rameses's palace. There was obviously much more to be had from him than simple courier.

"What has my husband told you?" she asked him.

Without sparing a glance at Paris, he replied, "The vaguest of vagaries, but I went with the expectation more details would be forthcoming."

"You won't do anything blindly, I can see that," Helen commented, smiling in thoughtful approval.

"It has never been my habit, and I don't intend to start now…Princess."

Helen straightened, more in interest than fear.

"What leads you to that conclusion?" Paris asked from his position behind her, the sharp tone implying the very notion of royalty offended him.

It was a feeble bluff. Urshé's gaze went to Paris, as though noticing him for the first time. "I have seen many people from all walks of life in the course of my work," he explained. "I can recognize royalty as easily as I can a prostitute."

The knowing tone was nearly imperceptible, almost like a whistle known only to dogs, but to Helen's ears it rang loud and clear. She knew that today – tonight – the two walks of life would cross, and Princess and Whore would become one. No doubt he sensed the motive for her wanting to enter the palace and saw the dual creatures within her. The two bloods. One, blue; the other, wanton scarlet.

Paris leaned over her shoulder, his lips brushing the wispy tendrils by her ear. "I'll send him away," he whispered, voice tight with anger. "He's too clever and insulting by half."

Helen shook her head slightly, but she said nothing nor did she remove her gaze from her (hopefully) imminent servant. To an observer, it appeared that a fly might have buzzed about her and, in irritation, she had shooed it away with that gesture. So it did to Urshé, who watched the exchange with an impassive expression, but with avid, sharp eyes.

"You are quite promising," she began, heedless of Paris's withdrawal from her side. "Tell me more of who you are and what you can offer us. If you are partial to risk, I believe there are a great many ways we can mutually benefit each other…"

* * *

If the city of Pi-Ramesse had rendered her speechless by its grandiosity, the immense palace that was the city's reason of existence, its epicenter, made Helen shrink in her sandals. Though built to recapture the glory of a dead man, it surged with life. Pillars seemed to reach for the clouds, as though taunting the gods that it could be within the power of Man to set foot in the heavens.

The structure was built of stones of concise shape and if she had several years of her life to while away, she wondered if she could count them all. Was there a number that high? The sheer number of slaves it would have required to construct it… Such a magnificent palace was only partially realized in Troy and virtually unknown in Greece. _This_ was only possible for an autocrat who rules from a throne established thousands of years ago with an accumulated treasury to match. She laughed inwardly. _Agamemnon could only have lusted in vain for this._

Her eyes fixed on Urshé's back. He walked before them, the script of a granted petition in his hand. She had sent him to Pharaoh's palace with all haste from their lodgings, his doubts satisfied and her challenge to consider risk accepted.

To make an audience more likely, she had entrusted Urshé with more information as to their identity so his presentation could be more impressive and persuasive. Her explicit instructions to him had been to tell Pharaoh's Secretary or Chamberlain – or whoever of mid-level importance he saw – that Troy had not been completely destroyed or subjugated, that some had escaped and were petitioning, a dignified beggary, for aid to reclaim it from the Greeks.

It was obvious from that information alone that Urshé realized with whom he had cast his lot. Displaced royalty, yes. But their actual identity had previously eluded him. Still, apart from the briefest, fleeting expression of shock, he betrayed little else. This reaction – or lack of it – solidified Helen's confidence in her new confederate.

Trust was something Helen had not allowed to get the better of her for some time. She had trusted Menelaus to be a good husband; he had failed. She had trusted Paris to rescue her from her hateful marriage; worse woes had followed them. She had trusted Troy's walls to stand and repel the Greeks; they had been breached. But she trusted that this vulnerable need within her had not forever withered. And, hopefully, the next recipient would not fail her. Urshé would not, she perceived, need her hand upon his back to keep him strong and set on his purpose.

* * *

After what seemed like obscene delay upon arrogant postponement by the vast army of officials who inhabited Pharaoh's orbit, the door to the antechamber opened and the impoverished Trojan royals entered the presence of Rameses, Ruler of the Two Lands, a god who walked the earth.

Helen had to restrain herself from rushing headlong past the Chamberlain and announce her arrival herself. But what an impression that would create! It had been apparent from the cool and arch manner of Rameses' various high-placed retainers that, compared to the Beloved of Ra, Trojan royalty was laughably uncouth and lowly.

Such lack of regard burned her, naturally, but it enraged Paris even more. Adorned in his golden armor, the one treasure they had not relinquished in the bartering for monies, he had stood with great pride, refusing to sit and wait for Pharaoh's call to appear, as his wife did. But that was all past. Now she was here. Now she would meet one of the most powerful men in the world. She looked up at the figure that sat on the raised dais, her breath ready to catch in her throat.

A wave of disappointment washed over her when she saw the thronèd monarch. She had expected an imposing stature, almost monstrous. She, who had been raised among and bedded by kings, had allowed the scraps of her hopes to assemble themselves into a man of Zeus-like power.

Pharaoh's chamberlain announced them with obsequious tone and gesture, and Helen tilted her head down just enough to convey respect without treading into the realm of subservience. Urshé, however, was bent nearly double, as his station demanded he do.

She glanced over at Paris and noted with some relief that he was expressing due honor without exaggeration or resentment. She knew how humility chafed at him. He wanted to be strong because whenever he had bended knee, it was usually done in cowardice. The beating he had suffered at Menelaus' hands, witnessed by the entire city of Troy, was burned onto his soul, branding him for what he was. She always feared he would try to eradicate that shame with exaggerated measures that could strip away whatever little advantages they had.

"So," came a firm voice, "I hear you are no ordinary band of refugees."

Helen and Paris tilted their heads upwards at the conversational observation. "We are, Majesty," Paris offered. "Probably the rarest jewels of a pillaged crown."

Helen was glad of her veil. Only the barest slit allowed her eyes to roam, the rest of her face safely masked. As she observed the vast room and its small army of occupants, she wondered which ones would be allies and which rivals. She believed she could already see features twist in calculation as they stood before Rameses.

"Jewels have become a diversion of late, nothing more," Pharaoh said, dismissive. "Out with it, quickly now. What brings you here?"

Helen was unprepared for the rude reception. It was not at all how she had envisioned this meeting. She was uncertain if she wanted to see his reaction change upon knowledge of their true identity. To imagine that he would be just as unpleasant filled her with dread.

She sensed Paris shift beside her, as much at a loss for words as she. She could not speak; she would not. It would undermine everything for her to interject and assume the task of putting forth their case. It had to be Paris.

"We…we have come from the north," Paris began, and Helen feared that his voice sounded horribly thin.

"The north," Rameses repeated, and his mouth set in a thoughtful line. "We know that the Greeks have destroyed a great swath in the far north. Are we to assume they have displaced you?" He didn't wait for Paris to reply, but instead beckoned him forward. "Come. I would see you closer."

Paris turned slightly to Helen and she looked at him through her veil, her eyes giving him the command rather than nodding her head.

Paris advanced towards the throne and Helen felt overwhelming envy that she was left behind. Her pique did not last long. Rameses lowered his head in intense inspection of Paris' golden armor and glanced up at her husband, whose expression she could not see.

Pharaoh's hand shot up in a silent command to his chamberlain and, as if by some strange conjuration, the hall emptied. Only a few men remained.

"You have traveled at great peril," Rameses said. "I imagine there are more than a few people interested in capturing you, Paris." The middle-aged king sat back in his throne and regarded him expertly. "What brings you here, I wonder?"

"I—"

"What remains of your life is quite subject to my pleasure. I'm sure you realize that."

Paris straightened. "Agamemnon is dead, as is Menelaus. If you want to divide me up amongst the other, lesser kings, then you may. But it would not be worth your while."

Helen watched Rameses' face avidly. The news of Agamemnon's death was unexpected, for she saw his eyes widen in surprise and his posture stiffen with attention to any future revelations.

"What _do_ you deem worth my while?"

Paris turned to Helen and held out his hand to her. She saw the pain creasing his brow, the humiliation he must be feeling to so callously offer her over to another despite his earlier comment that it bothered him not at all. It must be hurting him, she thought. She advanced to him and waited silently, her hand locked in his.

"We have an offer," Paris went on. "Troy is sacked, but it is not worthless. Nothing can rob it of its innate value. It is positioned perfectly for shipping routes, both water and overland. But I needn't remind you of that, and I have no qualms in sharing Troy's rebuilt glory with another."

Rameses nodded, but his eyes were fixed upon the veiled Helen. "And you are not above certain forms of bribery, I see."

"As I said, Troy has certain treasures, not all of them in the hands of Greeks."

Helen unfastened her veil, her gaze unwavering as she watched Rameses absorb the import of what was before him. His reaction was muted, although Helen was certain she could see dawning lust in his painted, aquiline eyes.

He is not an unhandsome man, she thought. His nose was perhaps his most dominant feature, almost like the beak of an eagle. Helen brushed aside his age as no obstacle; even young lovers sometimes looked upon older men with envy. Rameses was rumored to have as many concubines and wives as Priam, although she suspected he had surpassed Paris' father in number of brides, just as he was greater in breadth of empire and depth of treasury.

"Mighty Rameses," she purred, "I am Helen and I have long awaited to meet you."

* * *

_There, the second Paris & Helen chapter finally over! Back to the more interesting pairing in this fic. LOL Actually I'm going to work on the next chapter in my LOTR fic and then I'll get back to this one. Thanks in advance for reading and reviewing!_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

By the time one month passed, Andromache discovered that there were no desirable tasks for a slave, and she wondered how many of them her own servants had done with a grumble and stony glare. Granted, the work in a palace was markedly different than that on a budding farm, but commonplace routines such as kitchen duty were shared by both and she went to bed each night full of misery and dread at the prospect of another day's servitude in the earthly inferno. From her snug and sheltered life in Hector's home, she could not have imagined that the sulfurous heat of the underworld lay a mere distance across the sea — specifically, in a kitchen in central Phthia.

Worse than the kitchens were the fields. The land Achilles had given to his trusted captain lay at the base of the mountains that ran up into the heart of Thessaly. It was arable but only with some effort. It would take much toil and planning to turn Achilles' gift into one of greater value, and it was Eudorus' driving purpose to make it so. He had carved twelve plots out of his new holdings, with his as the central seat of power in this small, informal kingdom. They would continue to train as though battle was imminent, but for the moment the fell Myrmidons of Achilles were neophyte farmers and every slave, whether experienced in agriculture or not, was pressed to fulfill the visions of their masters.

She had been unlucky enough to find herself directed to that duty on multiple occasions with the male slaves and a few of the other women. She was given a sack of grain to sow and ordered to not waste a seed. As in the kitchens, she fashioned a sling around her neck or back and bore Astyanax every hour of the day. She became quite adept at changing his diaper quickly, sparing herself from a lashing, tongue or whip, by the cook or field overseer. It did not take long for her to realize that the cook was as ill tempered as the man who strode about the fields.

On the seemingly rare occasions that intersected when her limbs did not ache and Astyanax slept, her mind turned to other matters. She repeatedly recalled the moment in the hull of the boat, when Eudorus had spared the life of her son. Perhaps deep down she had thought that the act of kindness would result in better treatment when she was brought to their destination: better food or less work. But such was not the case and the enslaved Andromache soon realized with some reluctant pragmatism that any elevation of station was dangerous. The female slaves, whom she silently named The Pack of Bitch Dogs, resented any of their number rising above the others.

There were a few women who had been called to Eudorus' bed and they suffered pinches and slaps from their sister slaves when they returned to their duties the following morning. Andromache thought it was a bizarre sort of envy, for would they not have incurred the same treatment had they been the ones chosen by the master? She wondered if the venom was born from a sense of futility rather than any significant jealousy over how the Myrmidon distributed his priapic favors.

But it would not matter in short order, because there were only fifteen women — each one of serviceable looks and age — who owed their continued life to Achilles' captain. It was likely every one of them would eventually lie beneath him, and the pinches and slaps would be dealt out to the concubine of the moment rather than only those who had been bedded (while those who had not fumed). For one thing she was glad: his passions seemed to be infrequent and easily sated compared to Priam who, in his virile years, had sometimes found his vast collection of concubines lacking in sufficient quantity. Or so the rumor would have one believe.

Two months had now passed. Her time would come soon, and the prospect filled her with dread. She had seen the welts and bruises on the arms of one of the women, a fair girl from Knossos, who had incurred intense wrath from the others. Andromache feared their retribution more than any humiliation the Myrmidon could visit upon her. Also, worse, she had a child and they did not. Some of the women were of such foul temperament that even a baby would not be spared from a stray pinch.

Eudorus, the master of it all, did not seem to care about the squabblings of the fractious and vicious group. As long as work was done, he seemed content to let them be. He had other matters to attend to, and his preoccupation with them was obvious. As she went about her work, she saw him about his — overseeing the overseers, training at arms, and looking long and intent at the land, as though envisioning other and far greater things. Andromache wished she had the same freedom, but that word had no meaning here and she wondered if she would ever experience it again.

"Pull your head out of the clouds, Nephele, and be quick about it!"

Andromache flinched and realized she had let her mind unforgivably wander. That she had roused to the barking of her false name filled her with some relief. During the first week, she had walked on obliviously when the cook had called to her, earning her a cuff on the ear for her disobedience. Since then, she had tried to think of herself as nothing but Nephele, lowly slave. It burned her pride, but she did not have the luxury of only her own skin to look after.

With a glance at Astyanax, who dozed in the sling about her neck, she hauled on the rope of the well with renewed attention. She put the slopping bucket on the second hook of the yoke and scurried over to where Kallisto, the cook, stood with visible impatience.

"Keep walking," she ordered, pointing off to a building on the right. "The kitchen can wait for their water and, believe me, they'll thank you roundly for your dawdling later." She grinned fiercely. "The men have nearly finished their exercises and baths are required. Hop to it and keep filling those buckets until your legs give out, and not even then!" Without another word, Kallisto turned and marched off to her culinary kingdom, satisfied her commands would be obeyed.

"Grouchy sow," Andromache muttered, thinking that there could be no bigger incongruity between name and person.

Beautiful the cook surely was not. The woman's face was as weathered and dry as the sun-parched earth, deep furrows plowing her brow, cheeks and neck. Her nose was sharp, as were the rest of her features. A hawk. That described her best. Nothing escaped her eye. She held the kitchen in the iron grip of her knotty hands and made it clear that she would brook no disorder or disobedience. Her standards were high and Andromache wondered if it was a manifestation of loyalty, for she spoke of Eudorus with nothing but reverence.

Though this land was newly his and everything upon it was freshly built or currently erected, it was obvious that Kallisto had belonged to him for some time. Andromache did not envy those who might harbor ill will against the Myrmidon commander and act upon it. Though he had subordinates holding neighboring pieces of land and hence had a small force amassed around him, Andromache mused that Kallisto would knock them all aside — even the ferocious Tydeus — in order to protect him with her own body. A butcher's knife would be produced if the need was great, but Andromache felt that Kallisto's claw-like hands were lethal enough.

"I'm going to lose my hide if I don't get moving," she said, with a shake of her head at Astyanax. The weight of the yoke had become heavier during her distraction and she hurried over to the bath house, feeling her knees bend more with each step and she was tense with the fear that she would spill one or both of the buckets.

She kicked against the rough plank door and shook her foot at the ankle to rid her sandal of a pernicious pebble. _I do not need to be hobbling about lamely right now,_ she thought irritably.

The door swung back on its leather hinges and a blast of hot air robbed her of her breath. The fire had already been lit under the large cauldron that sat in the corner of the room. Three terra cotta tubs sat side by side, each one seating a single man. On the side of the wall was a long bench where others would wait their turn for an empty tub. It was an admirably tidy scheme, kept in order in proportion to its importance. The Myrmidons were bloody warriors who feasted on gore, but they were not averse to cleanliness.

Andromache rushed in with as much urgency as if Kallisto's foot had kicked her in the buttocks, a persuasive method the old woman sometimes employed.

"Ah, Nephele!"

Andromache looked up to see Iasemi on the far side of the room, a bundle of wood in her arms as she continued to stoke the fire under the cauldron. It did her heart good to see the girl had recovered. Her dislocated shoulder still caused her some sporadic pain, but Eudorus' manipulation had been done passably well. Iasemi had also lost her pallor and now appeared as healthy as Andromache had ever seen her, which was not so strange as she had soon learned. The girl had come from southern Macedon, sold into slavery to a Trojan dyer and then given to Priam to pay for unforgivably shoddy workmanship on an order of fabric for Hector's palace. "I may never go home again," Iasemi had said, "but Phthia is tolerably close to it."

Though Andromache thought it wonderful happenstance that it was possibly _she_ who complained about the faulty fabric, thus eventually tying Iasemi's fate to hers, she also had felt shame that she had never learned about the girl's history in happier times. When Iasemi had appeared in her apartments in Troy, she had not questioned why or how the girl had come to serve. All that had seemed relevant at the time was that there was someone to look after Astyanax and someone to fetch and carry whatever item she wanted readily at hand.

Andromache skirted around the other slaves readying the tubs and bathing implements. The _strigils_ — hammered pieces of bronze used to scrape sweat and dirt from the skin — were set side by side where each Myrmidon could take one for his own use. Amphorae stood ready, filled with oil to rub into clean skin.

"I may need your help," Andromache said, upending one bucket after the other into the cauldron.

"What is it?" Iasemi asked. "I am almost done here anyway." She brightened and before Andromache could say anything, she whispered, "Did you hear the argument between Xuthos and the master?" Again, before she could answer, Iasemi charged on into her gossip, a realm Andromache had soon realized was comfortable terrain for the Macedonian.

"I heard Xuthos arguing with him that he didn't get one of us to warm his bed last night and the master told him that if he wanted a ride, he could end his visit short and go home to his own stable of women." She shook her head as she tossed a few small pieces of limb wood into the flames. "Xuthos was very angry, though he tried not to forget himself. I don't think he's forgiven the master for making him give up some of his spoils."

_If I remember correctly, _Andromache thought,_ he had to hand over two tripods for blindly rushing after Iasemi when she appeared on the ridge where they were moored. No matter that Xuthos captured us. He had disobeyed. And now those tripods sit beside my mother's comb in Eudorus' treasure room. Which one of them ripped it from her hair? Do I want to know? Are the wounds too raw to trust myself with that knowledge?_

So busy had she been with her own thoughts that she failed to take advantage when Iasemi paused for breath. The moment was lost and the girl continued eagerly.

"And can you guess the reason why he doesn't cast us about like coins to beggars?" she asked.

Andromache smiled tolerantly and did not bother to reply. The girl would be providing the answer soon enough.

"Xuthos pressed him about it, and the master finally said that he would not have a bunch of fat, pregnant women slowing their work."

"Of course not," Andromache replied quickly before Iasemi could continue. "We will be bred when it's convenient for him!"

"He also said that he wouldn't create meals for the wolves, but I think the other Myrmidons think nothing of tossing the unwanted babes onto the hillsides. Some of their women are already with child, but I don't know of one here that is. Although," she added, thoughtful, "Tryphena, that beautiful girl from Knossos, has been looking quite green in the morning."

Andromache shook her head, but not in dismay. Iasemi's experience as a palace slave, where they often faded into the walls but saw and heard everything, had served her well here. Most of the other slaves were the daughters of artisans, farmers and merchants, uncouth and unlearned in the fine art of spying. But Iasemi had kept knowledge of her talents to herself. When Andromache once asked Iasemi just how much she had overheard in Hector's palace, a coy smile was her reply. She was certain there were tales of Paris and Helen to be had in abundance, not to mention of she and Hector.

Iasemi dusted her hands. "So, what did you want to ask?"

"Please take Phaedrus with you on your next task," she said, referring to Astyanax's new name. It pained her to think that Astyanax would grow up not knowing who he was, unable to answer to the name his father had given him. When he was of age and circumstances had perhaps changed, then maybe she would reveal everything and what he chose to do with the discovery would be in his hands. But for his sake, as much as hers, it was safer to pretend that she had always been Nephele and he always Phaedrus.

"I have to finish filling this," she informed her, "and I'm going to be moving as fast as I can. The poor boy will be knocked around if I keep him."

Iasemi nodded. "I've been told to wash the men's tunics after they finish exercising," she said. "At least those who chose to wear them! Little Phaedrus will enjoy a splash in the river before I muddy it up with their reeking clothes."

Andromache patted the girl's head and Iasemi looked up with a smile that had become different over the passing weeks. It was the same smile Andromache had shared with Hecuba, with Hector's closest brothers, with childhood friends. It was the smile shared among equals, and Andromache felt no qualms about regarding Iasemi as such. The girl had earned it hundredfold.

She took the sling from around her neck and handed the weighty, napping bundle to Iasemi. "He's grown so big," she remarked. "The day will come when I won't be allowed to carry him with me."

Iasemi hung him around her neck gently. "When that happens, he'll be toddling around behind you," she said. "You will no doubt wish he would go away and not trod on your heels."

"It sounds like you've had similar feelings," Andromache commented with a smile. "My husband's father had many, many children and grandchildren. Too many, I sometimes thought." It gave her a measure of happiness to still be able to speak of her beloved family, if only in anonymous terms.

"Very true," Iasemi agreed. "My legs were often black and blue from being run into by all those children."

Andromache snatched up her yoke and buckets. "I cannot move myself today, and I will surely pay for it tonight if Kallisto discovers I have been lagging yet again. I will collect Phaedrus after I am done here!" Holding her burden high, she darted around the other slaves and ran back to the well. She could still hear the clash of swords from the practice yard and hoped that they would continue to pummel each other for some time yet.

* * *

As Kallisto had threatened, Andromache indeed continued to bear water long after her legs had collapsed. The cauldron seemed to be bottomless today. At one point, she lost all sensation of walking and could not recollect how she had crossed the yard from the well to the house and back again. If there were whole boulders in her sandals, she could not feel them. 

When she emptied the final bucket, she collapsed onto the stone bench and sent a _strigil _clattering to the limestone floor. With a groan, she bent over and fumbled at it with aching fingers.

There was a flurry of activity at the door and she looked over at the gathered slaves with a dull stare. The men were coming, the day's exercise done.

Iasemi finished sprinkling some scented oil into the steaming cauldron and gave a hurried wave to Andromache as she took her post beside the door, arms held out. Within seconds, the first Myrmidon appeared and Iasemi's waiting arms were filled with a stained and sweat-limp tunic. Another entered, but unlike the lead one, he had not doffed his clothes on the way from the yard. When he stopped to pull it over his head in the doorway, his fellow soldiers behind him shoved him good-naturedly and jeered that he was faster to remove his armor on the battlefield in the face of the enemy.

Andromache shook her head, pulling herself to her feet. It never changed. The same bluster, the same insults. She had had to help in the baths several times already, and the routine was as predictable as it was amusing. The first time had been somewhat painful, for Hector had once confided to her with a self-deprecatory laugh that he had suffered the same treatment at the hands of his own men in the baths.

A hand gripped her upper arm and she looked into the harried eyes of Kyros, one of the seniors among the male slaves. Of middle height and greying hair, he did not have Kallisto's foreboding features, but his voice was deep and held authority where his unimpressive stature could not. The bath was his domain, just as the kitchen was Kallisto's. "Get more water!" he commanded. "What do you think we'll be mixing the hot water with? Do you want to scald them to death?"

Andromache looked at her yoke that leaned against the wall. She wanted to weep from exhaustion. "I can't," she said. "I have carried so many…"

"Tell that to Tydeus," Kyros said briskly. He was well aware of the enmity Eudorus' dedicated fighter bore her. The towering Myrmidon had made no secret of his desire to repay each scratch she had given him on the beach the day of her capture with twenty lashes. Iasemi, that ever reliable source, had reported this sentiment to her and she had given Tydeus an even wider berth ever since. She did not want to ever find herself alone with him.

She grabbed the yoke and buckets and gave Iasemi a commiserating pat on the back as she passed. The girl had craned her neck away from the odious laundry in her arms and rolled her eyes comically at the sheer horror of the smell. Andromache found the energy to laugh and squeezed through the door, a move that earned her a grunt of approval from one of the naked Myrmidons as his post-exercise euphoria was rubbed in an inadvertent, yet pleasing, manner.

Fear of being grabbed by lustful hands propelled her through the door, past the glaring Tydeus, and into the yard. She had endured such indignities before, but had never been forced. She now knew she and the other women had Eudorus to thank for that, according to Iasemi.

Andromache hooked the bucket onto the well rope and let it fall into the cistern. As she began to haul it up, she hissed through clenched teeth. Her palms and fingers had raised blisters from the scores of buckets she had drawn and the rope felt like a knife on her angry skin.

When she set the bucket on the edge of the well, she plunged her hands into the cool water and closed her eyes as the pain slowly subsided. She curled and uncurled her fingers, swirling them around and around in the water and feeling several of the knuckles crack in relief. The hands of a princess were giving way to those of a slave.

She opened her eyes when she heard voices. Two other Myrmidons were making their way to the baths. They had shunned tunics for the exercise field and Andromache found herself looking down at her bucket of water, flustered. Hector and his soldiers had not been ashamed of their bodies, but they had never flaunted them in this manner. The Myrmidons seemed dedicated to displaying their prowess in every form. The constant practice, training, and exercise had toned muscle and sinew, causing bronzed skin to leap and ripple at each flex and movement. Slave women were not the only intended audience; she had seen them boasting and bragging to one another over this or that attribute, and the looks of appreciation between them were genuine.

Her hands now soothed, she filled the second bucket and was about to hook it onto her yoke when two sweaty and grimy arms appeared before her and took it.

"No!" she said without thinking. All she could see was the fruit of her painful labors being taken away and was angry that she would have to draw another one. She grabbed onto the bucket, but the man took it from her easily.

Andromache stood and rocked back on her heels, one hand flying to the small of her back. She stopped cold when she saw Eudorus standing before her, his tunic dark with sweat and covered head to toe in sand. One of the other Myrmidons must have thrown him to the ground as they wrestled. If so, he was probably not in a good humor about the defeat.

She watched as he upended the bucket over his head, drenching himself. Fresh mud spattered her feet and the bottom of her long tunic. She looked down and cursed silently.

He held the bucket out to her, although he remained with his neck arched backward to absorb the heat of the sun on his cooled, dripping face. She took it and returned it to the well. If he wanted the other bucket, he was welcome to it. And If Kyros wanted to punish her for being tardy with the water, she would tell him who was to blame.

She grasped the rope in both hands, but it was not enough. Her hands protested and her arms screamed. She braced a foot against the side of the well and exerted every last measure of strength she had. When the rope seemed to fly through the pulley and her hands, she at first thought it had snapped. But it was not so. She turned and saw Eudorus behind her, hauling on the rope. He motioned her to step aside and she did so numbly, pressing her palms together and willing the pain from the blisters to go away.

Eudorus attached the bucket to the yoke and held it up for her to step beneath it. He was smiling — at least what Andromache had learned was his smile. The Myrmidon captain was not one prone to easy cheer and his smiles were barely visible. His ice blue eyes gave the expression a cold, biting uncertainty.

She bent her head and settled the curved wood about her shoulders. All the while a tight, terrified knot formed in the pit of her stomach. The solicitous behavior…it was so unexpected. He had not approached her for weeks when he could have done so, for motives both innocent and unsavory.

_My time has come,_ she thought heavily.

She waited briefly, hoping he would go on without her, but he did not. She moved on and he walked along behind her. Even the sweltering heat could not erase the sensation of those cold eyes piercing her back. _Better to feel them on my back than to have to look into them,_ she decided. _On the night he takes me, I will not look into his eyes. I cannot. I do not want to see what lurks behind them._

Despite her best efforts to remain composed, she stumbled through the door and, as expected, Kyros was immediately there, ready to dispense punishment for disrupting the smooth operation of his cherished duty. "You slug!" he hissed. "Grab two more and be quick about it this time!"

Her mouth had gone dry and she could do nothing but nod and retreat to a corner to allow Eudorus to move past her. She set the buckets on the floor and collected two empty ones and her yoke.

"Get the water yourself, Kyros." Andromache looked up and saw Eudorus tossing his tunic in the face of the stunned slave. "And wash this while you're about it."

The six Myrmidons seated on the bench laughed raucously at the comically horrified expression on Kyros' face. The man was well regarded, but he was fair game for sport.

Andromache hurried over to Kyros and took the dirty tunic from him. "I will give it to Iasemi," she said. "And I will get more water. It is my fault for tarrying. I'm sorry, Kyros."

"I wish you to stay," Eudorus said flatly, taking the tunic from her hands and giving it to Kyros in a slow and deliberate gesture. His tone made it plain that there was no room for negotiation.

Andromache bowed her head and nearly closed her eyes in prayer, hoping her words would persuade him as they had done when she first pled for Astyanax's life. _Why is he so intent on this?_ she wondered. _Women draw the water, and men bathe the men. That is how it is done. How it **should** be done._

"My lord, I have only ever hauled water and made the baths ready. I have never done the expert work of Kyros and the others. I would not know what to do and my efforts would serve you poorly."

"I don't agree."

Kyros muttered something in a dialect she couldn't decipher. The pithy and wry tone led her to think it was probably the equivalent of "And that is that."

The matter was certainly at an end for Eudorus. He grabbed Andromache around the wrist and pulled her after him. She looked over her shoulder and mouthed an apology to Kyros, who gave her a sympathetic nod in return. _Both of us know why he wants me here_, she thought sadly.

Eudorus loosed his hold on her and crawled into the tub nearest the cauldron. This signaled the next ranking Myrmidons, Tydeus and Nikanor, to take the remaining tubs. Conversation erupted and Kyros gestured to two of the attending slaves to begin washing their charges.

Andromache watched, petrified, as Kyros took up her yoke and empty buckets and headed towards the door. When it shut behind him, the room seemed to darken considerably and become more oppressive. Steam had already begun to build and her position directly beside the source of it scorched her nostrils. Though the Myrmidons were engaged in their own discussions and were paying her little heed, she felt as naked as they.

Something was pressed into her hand and she looked down at a rough, linen cloth and a bar of bitter-smelling soap. "Get to work!" the slave hissed. "You _must_ have done this before with someone!"

Her fingers curled around the items and she glanced at Eudorus out of the corner of her eye. He was looking ahead of him with patience of uncertain duration. The urge to flee was strong, and for some seconds she contemplated it. What was the worst he could conceivably do if she ran? It was a minor offense; she certainly would not have severely punished a shy slave.

Even before she began these scenarios, she knew they were dangerously foolhardy. She did not want to court punishment that he would administer in his bed. Better to remove herself mentally from her task, just as she had done with the well work, and do as ordered.

She soaked the rag and knelt beside the tub, not venturing to look at him. She was startled when he took both rag and soap from her hands and began to furiously scrub at his dirty arms.

"Water," he said. When she didn't immediately obey, he continued in a painfully patient tone. "Hot and cold, mixed. In a bucket. Over my head."

Andromache felt her jaw tighten. _He is toying with me simply because he can_, she thought angrily. _There was no need for me to be here. First, he has me believe he wants a sensual hand bath — a prelude for other things to come _—_ and then he gives me orders any of the regular bath slaves could have done._

She rose and took a bucket of water from the cauldron to mix it with the cooler water Kyros had already brought, testing its temperature with her fingers and adding more hot water than was comfortable. Her spite wanted to scald him, but she kept it in check.

"If he won't have your services, I'll take them!"

Andromache flinched at the voice. Tydeus. His remark provoked a raucous roar among his comrades, as did her visible revulsion.

She had to walk past the sitting Myrmidons to return to Eudorus and it felt like a hellish gauntlet. No hands reached out to grab her, but the stares and grins were just as vile.

But Tydeus was not finished. He leaned forward so he could look past Eudorus and see her as she knelt beside his captain's tub. "There's some dirt I can't quite get off," he said with a leer, and his hand disappeared to grasp the appendage that required her attention.

Another roar filled the room. Every drop of breeding in her blood screamed at this humiliation, every propriety she had once observed wailed at such base-born ribaldry. Eudorus, the son of Hermes? Rather the bastard get of a capricious immortal, if there was any truth to the rumors at all. But a bastard all the same, no matter the blood. Why was Olympic blood so vaunted? Helen supposedly had it in her veins, and if actions were any indication, she had behaved true to form. And Tydeus…

She returned his leer with a stony look. He was the bastard spawn of a pig and snake, if she wanted to be kind.

Tydeus' attendant took the opportunity to dump his bucket of water over the Myrmidon's head, sluicing grimy suds into the tub and over onto Eudorus. He flicked them away with an impatient hand, but he was smiling broader than she had ever seen before.

"That will cool you off until you get back to your own," he told the sputtering and dripping man. As if for emphasis, he punched Tydeus soundly on the arm.

Tydeus swept his hair out of his face and spit. "Zeus' whiskers, one would think you were an Assyrian king from the way you protect your prizes. You're welcome to sample mine."

"He already has," Xuthos put in sullenly from his position on the bench. "Why do you think you got the ones you did?"

"Because I won more than half of them with my own hands," Tydeus shot back. "So did you. No one took the best and left us with their scraps. And I'll be pleased if you shut your mouth about it forever." He turned to Eudorus and shook his head, for the moment his own transgression of no import.

Andromache watched the exchange raptly, nearly afraid to move a muscle. The matter of Xuthos' discontent had removed scrutiny from her and the other Myrmidons were beginning to weigh in with their own insults to their unhappy comrade. She felt a rush of relief. She was no longer needed here.

"Master," she whispered to Eudorus, "Kallisto wanted me to draw water for the kitchen after I had done so for the baths. She will be angry if I don't appear soon."

Eudorus' brows shot up at the mention of his formidable cook. "Then I suppose you'd better!"

Andromache made to rise, but stopped when Eudorus laid a hand around her wrist.

"If I find you're lying…" He left the rest unsaid.

Even in the heat of the room, his eyes still held remarkable coolness. As always, she found it nearly impossible to meet them without wanting to look away. "I do not lie," she managed evenly.

He let go of her wrist, but caressed her cheek with the back of a rough, battle-scarred finger. "Others have ruined this with their games," he said, his gaze fixing her like a poisoned arrow, "but next time it will only be us, Nephele."

Andromache rose to her feet with shaking knees. She made her way to the door without tripping over the pairs of feet that impeded her path. Before she left, she turned and looked at the occupant of the far tub. No one else seemed aware of their short conversation. It was as though a veil had been drawn around them.

A frightening, dark veil of the blackest cloth.

* * *

**Happy Christma-Hanu-Kwanz-ukkah!**

**I think it says a lot that this chapter only took me a couple weeks to write and the two previous Helen/Paris chapters took something like 6 months (or more). Guess who I find more interesting…**

**For any readers who also follow my LOTR fic, I'm happy to report that I have not lost any more bunnies since I last posted there. I know…it was beginning to be a gruesome trend. My Mitzi actually spent much of the revision process on my lap, telling me I wasn't putting in enough naked Myrmidons. She nips when she wants something, so she was very persuasive. I can't wait for the naughty minx to get spayed.  
**

**Please let me know what you think of this chapter! Even a couple words are welcome!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

The oath voiced so intensely in the bath became a relic of hasty lust. Or so Andromache hoped. In the week following the exchange with Eudorus in the steamy, smoky confines of the bathing hut, he did not approach her. Even so, she could still feel that particular gaze, a chill sensation no matter how hot the day. But with all of her tasks and the everyday labor of rearing Astyanax to occupy her, her thoughts were often untroubled by the presence of her mercurial Myrmidon master.

So it was with idle interest that she lifted her head from her monotonous toil in the kitchens when she heard his unmistakable voice rise above the din. He stood in the doorway, listening with visible impatience as Kallisto gesticulated in apparent frustration. Their words were unintelligible, but the animated exchange piqued her interest as much for the mystery of any unheard conversation as for Kallisto's absence of fear at speaking so plainly. She continued to observe them surreptitiously as she stirred the mutton stew.

Kallisto turned from him and, as one, the kitchen women bent their heads in renewed attention over pots, fires and knives. When their formidable taskmaster spoke, Andromache was not the only one who flinched. Kallisto's tone could not have conveyed her displeasure any clearer.

"I suppose some warning is better than none," she barked, and though her eyes swept the confused faces that were now turned towards her, Andromache suspected her caustic words were meant for one pair of ears alone.

"The King of Kings himself is returning to our shores," Kallisto continued, the Mycenaean's self-appointed title dripping acidly from her tongue, "and we'll not be spared his eagle eye. Your hides will be worked raw from now 'til then. Master's orders. And mine, too."

Andromache felt her stomach heave. _It's not possible_, she thought, panicked. _He's dead. Briseis killed him. She swore it._

She glanced over Kallisto's shoulder. Eudorus still stood in the doorway, watching his trusted slave deliver his news.

"King of Kings?" came a faint and confused voice from among the women. "Who is that?"

Andromache turned to the girl and recognized her as a captive taken from a village in Lycia, remote enough from the thick of war so that the names and titles of kings and princes had not been burned into their memories, unlike their unfortunate Trojan neighbors to the north.

"Agamemnon," she said, trying to mask her dismay, her horror. Her tongue felt thick and dry in her mouth as that hated name passed her lips. "He's secured his new conquest and now wishes to shore up his power here, lest anyone forget."

When she saw Eudorus straighten, she feared she had said too much, revealing a mind best left unused in the darkness of slavery. Yet it was so hard to abandon that portion of herself, the part that had been raised in and married to a world of politics and intrigue, where the divining of men's thoughts and intentions was considered a game among the more astute of the palace women.

"What he does and why he does it is of no concern to you," Kallisto snapped. "I'm sure he'll whip the winds to hasten his journey, just so he can sup with your sage counsel."

Some of the women tittered at the rebuke and Andromache flushed, a reaction she found all the more odious because of the disparity between her blood and those around her. Only Iasemi had earned equal status. Even stripped of her royal raiment, she should not be so easily embarrassed by the ridicule of these women. Yet she was.

The laughter ebbed and Kallisto began dispensing orders. There was much to be done. A feast that would do honor ― and placate ― a victorious king eager to flex his muscles would be immense indeed.

Andromache spared a glance at Eudorus, even as her ears were filled with Kallisto's barrage of instructions. Though their eyes met but briefly, she detected a curious glint that had not been present before. And entwined with that interest was something she had never expected to see in the eyes of any Myrmidon. Not fear; no, she would never hope for that much. But…was it dread? Dread of reckoning with the Mycenaean king?

She suspected that Achilles had been the exception to relish confrontation with Agamemnon. The Myrmidons had had a strong and willful voice in the person of Achilles, but that voice was silenced. Now his able captain had to look the formidable son of Atreus in the eye and speak with unwavering voice and unflinching gaze, the pride of the Myrmidons resting on his shoulders.

She felt an odd twinge of kinship with the Myrmidon, despite the fact that he held her freedom — her very life — in his hands and, thus, was not entitled to her sympathy. She feared the Mycenaean for a different reason: a single misstep would reveal her true identity to him. If that ever came to pass, she knew the remaining pieces of her life ― her son, her precarious honor ― would be spit in the wind. The only release would be suicide. There were few worse things than being at the mercy of one without mercy. That had been Hector's fate, and she would not let herself or Astyanax suffer at the hands of another monster. Better to languish in slavery under Eudorus' power. Better to bear him a dozen bastards and work her hands raw than listen to Agamemnon's gloating laughter over her head as she knelt before him, conquered and without hope.

"Nephele, if you don't open your ears, I swear I'll nail your hide over Agamemnon's door as a welcoming gift!"

She started at Kallisto's naked threat and looked around at a sea of amused stares. She stumbled away from their scrutiny to take a place among the informal ranks that had a habit of naturally forming whenever Kallisto began to bark orders.

She found herself standing next to Tryphena and immediately noticed the girl's sallow complexion with concern. Speaking would surely ignite Kallisto's wrath, so she reached down and grasped the Cretan captive by the hand, flinching at the feel of its thin fragility. If Iasemi was correct and Tryphena was indeed pregnant, it would be a hard, terrifying birth.

Tryphena started at the contact, but made no effort to disengage herself. She turned to Andromache and gave a wan smile, its paleness made all the more apparent by the girl's own fair features. Yet, oddly, the smile was a detached thing, reflected not at all in her eyes and as unfamiliar as a foreign visitor. Andromache realized with intense sadness that, while this girl still was a beauty, she had once been more robustly so, the type of graceful nymph with gossamer hair of moonlight, alabaster skin and captivating charms that Andromache had despised in her youth. She supposed that all gawky girls with hair the color of mud, like herself, had harbored ill-will against their fairer sisters, but she felt no pleasure that Tryphena now resembled a butterfly that had battered itself against the hands that held it.

Foreboding stabbed at her. Tryphena had the air of one doomed. It clung to her like a wet shroud.

When Kallisto was done with her dictates, Andromache deemed it safe to retreat from the kitchen and she insistently tugged at Tryphena's hand. When the girl did not follow, she whispered, "I must talk with you. You are looking poorly."

Tryphena nodded, and Andromache was shocked to see a fleeting smile of confirmation on the colorless lips.

"You are fading deliberately?" she asked, unable to hide her shock. Tryphena said nothing, but her expression plainly stated she took Andromache for a blind fool, that it could not have been more obvious.

The matter of her pregnancy could no longer remain a matter for subtlety and Andromache charged ahead with her suspicions. "You shall not starve two," she hissed and, without further ceremony, she tightened her grip around the fragile wrist and led Tryphena from the kitchen, not caring if the girl was willing or not. If she would not look to her own welfare, then the task must fall to another.

There was no struggle, perhaps because such a display would arouse unwanted attention. So Tryphena followed her, meek and silent, through the kitchen and across the sun-baked yard to the deserted women's quarters.

Once inside, Andromache's stern and tense expression softened and she clasped Tryphena's hands in gentle encouragement. "Was I correct?" she asked. "Are you with child?"

Tryphena crumbled, the solitude lowering her defenses. "Let me die," she wailed thinly, covering her face. "The shame of it, all of it—"

"Nonsense," Andromache admonished her, though she kept her tone soft. "The shame is not killing you. You are doing that yourself." She looked Tryphena up and down. "Starving yourself is not the answer."

Tryphena snapped her hands to her side and glared at Andromache with sudden ferocity through red-rimmed, sunken eyes. "What _is_ the answer?" she demanded. "You seem awfully sure there is one. Is captivity a second nature to you? I assure you, it is foreign to me."

Andromache retreated from her prior tack and sighed. Perhaps Tryphena could be appealed to in another manner. "The babe is innocent. Why must it suffer too? It is of your body, your blood—"

"And _his_," Tryphena spat. "I'll not spawn any Myrmidon scum, a snake that would only be raised to raid and kill more people. _My _people! You should worry about your son. Do you think that you will be allowed to keep him forever? They will take him, Nephele. When he's old enough, he'll be taken and made into one of them."

This was not the first time that the thought had occurred to her and her hesitation was obvious enough for Tryphena to seize upon it triumphantly. "You will lose him," she pressed on, "and when he is a cold killer, a raper of women and butcher of babies, I wonder if you will embrace him as your beloved son."

Andromache looked at Tryphena sadly, not for the possible truth she spoke, but the venom each word had contained. "What has been done to you, child? I can feel the hate that flows through you. Don't let it consume you utterly."

"And what care you if it does? My heart is cold. It rattles around inside me and I have no desire to change it. My hate is a warmth and joy to me."

Andromache shook her head, at a loss as how to proceed. "If you must do this to yourself, wait for the birth. You are not the gods, Tryphena. It is for them to decide when the babe's thread is cut. Not you."

If Andromache had doubted that Tryphena's features could twist into further anger, she was proved wrong. The bony fingers curled into claws, fists straining against the very air with knuckles turning into a shade of death. "The gods! If so, then the gods wanted me forced by a dozen men before I could wed! The gods wanted my village razed and my family slaughtered! Those bloody-handed gods will not see their will done this time!"

She turned and before Andromache could grab her, she ran from the quarters. Andromache gave chase, certain the girl was of such a mind that she could easily do harm to herself or others. Her madness had been simmering under the surface and now, like a fever, it had erupted furiously. If she did something dire, its effects could spread like a contagion.

Hector had once told her of a young girl brought to Priam's palace as a slave when he was himself a boy. Her mind was in delicate balance, kept precariously in order by only the greatest of luck, until one day it toppled over the side and was lost. One morning she had gone into the kitchens, plucked every kitten from its nursing mother, and strangled each one with eerie control and calm. Tryphena was of a more violent nature than the unfortunate creature of Hector's youth and thus worried Andromache more, but Hector's tale was firmly in the front of her mind as she ran madly in the Cretan's wake.

She must stop her, even if Tryphena's mission born of her madness was to fly to Olympus and slay Zeus himself.

Andromache saw Tryphena round the grain hut, steadily outpacing her. With renewed effort, she tried to close the distance, ignoring the pain that shot through her feet from flimsy sandals meeting rocky ground. Her hairpins fell away, dust clung to her sweaty limbs, and she gasped for air as she ran, ran, ran. She wondered if she was pursuing a Cretan captive, or if she was chasing after one of the Furies, so supernatural had Tryphena become.

Several slaves watched in mute confusion or open amusement as two women of very visibly different minds passed them in quick succession. Andromache gestured wildly at them, shouting for them to stop her, but her commands were ignored or misunderstood until the moment to act had passed.

With horror, she saw Tryphena fling herself through the door of the weaponry with the abandon of a drowning man grasping at dry land. She came to a reeling, sudden stop, uncertain how to proceed. If she walked through that door, unarmed, death would be assured. If she had read what remained of Tryphena's mind, a sword in that girl's hands would become an erratic and blunt instrument of misplaced revenge.

A few of the slaves she had rushed past earlier had followed in curiosity, and she motioned to the hut with a few quick gestures that conveyed that Tryphena had lost her mind. But they, like she, were unarmed, and they all shared a sense of frustrated helplessness.

"Can you talk to her, Nephele?" one asked.

Andromache nodded slowly as she glanced at the silent hut, although she did not want to reveal that it was her attempt at conversation that had provoked the current situation.

The first slave's companion seemed less sympathetic. "If Tryphena thinks she will relieve herself of all cares with such a ploy, she'll soon find out otherwise."

Andromache left such chattering behind as she advanced toward the hut, one eye trained on the darkened door while the other searched for signs of a Myrmidon. Any Myrmidon. She found herself hoping for the cry that would indicate the unfortunate creature had ended her own life among the pitiless company of sword, spear and shield. A death at the hands of a Myrmidon would not be done kindly. Her heart, still beating wildly from her exertion, suddenly convulsed in a strange brew of dread and hope.

"Tryphena?" she called, turning an ear towards the door. "Please come out." She feared saying more for fear that it could cast the girl into further rage, but the man that had implored her to approach Tryphena motioned for her to continue.

"You're endangering yourself and the child," she said as she skirted the hut to look directly through the door. A clatter was her answer and she saw a shadowed flurry of movement followed by further clamor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the male slave's caustic companion run toward the main house in what Andromache assumed was a bid for help. "Tryphena? Can you hear me?"

Step by slow step, she closed the distance between her and the hut until she could brush it with her fingers. "Tryphena, you need never touch the child. I will take it fresh from your womb and raise it as my own. I swear to you."

She waited, and the seconds stretched into minutes. The absence of any answer from Tryphena was beginning to trouble her greatly. She looked around at the gathered slaves and shrugged in baffled resignation. "What more can I promise?" she asked them, expecting no reply. "She's gone mad. What can pierce that insanity if talk of her child will not?"

She heard the pounding of feet on earth and she turned to see the slave return, her long tunic bunched into her fists as she jogged across the yard towards her. She wheeled past Andromache and gestured behind her with a toss of her head. "He's coming," she said.

"He?" Andromache made to follow the woman with further questions, but she caught sight of Eudorus advancing like a fell storm. Every movement was broad and rigid, his fury apparent. Andromache felt her stomach heave as she saw Tryphena's inevitable punishment writ in fire across his brow.

Andromache dashed to the doorway. "Tryphena!" she hissed, nearly weeping. "You _must_ come out now! Spare yourself any further misery!" She scanned the interior of the hut, but her eyes could not adjust quickly to the contrasting light and she squinted in desperate effort to see Tryphena's form.

"You! Girl!" came an irritated growl. "What's this nonsense I'm hearing? Come out of there!"

Andromache stumbled away from the door and was about to tell him the truth of the matter, but a shriek and a wail robbed her of speech. She whirled around to see Tryphena standing in the door with a sword clenched in her talon-like fingers, the blade laying flat against her thigh.

"Tryphena!" she whispered, clasping her hands together. "I beg you. Think of the child before you do anything!"

Tryphena looked at her with only a flicker of recognition before her eyes widened at the sight of Eudorus over Andromache's shoulder. A long, low breath escaped her as she fixed him with a hard, crazed glare through dark, sunken eyes. Tryphena's pale blond hair and brows faded into the sun so all that remained vivid were those unforgiving eyes and an angry slash of mouth. A mouth that contorted as she screamed a series of words in a dialect Andromache could not understand.

The other slaves seemed almost as if in a trance, unmoving and mute. It was a bizarre spectacle, its suddenness and intensity taking everyone by surprise. Eudorus had said nothing further and Andromache sensed that he understood this was not a simple matter of a disobedient slave. Because she could not see him and knew not what move he intended, she remained rigid and forced herself to be calm. She would not lower her defenses to turn around, however briefly.

Tryphena's grip on the sword had not slackened, rather intensifying until Andromache was not sure which would shatter first: her hand or the sword.

The blade shot upwards in the first step of an attack aimed at Eudorus and Andromache lunged at her, hoping to throw the girl off her feet. But her momentum was weak, and Tryphena knocked her aside with the fist that held the sword. Andromache frantically grabbed at Tryphena's tunic and tried to wrench the woman back from her headlong plunge into suicide. The fabric rent easily, but Andromache refused to let go.

Tryphena whirled in fury at the impediment and slashed at her own gown to rid her of this clinging pest. Andromache snatched her hands away, certain that the next strike would result in amputation. But Tryphena's ire was not easily assuaged, and she struck out with the sword blindly.

Andromache screamed as she ducked, but she was not fast enough. The blade grazed her scalp. She fell to her knees and clutched her head in impotent defense, several locks of hair falling loose through her fingers.

No further blows came. She opened her eyes to see that Tryphena had turned towards the original object of her rage. Andromache struggled to her feet, one hand clamped to her wound, and stumbled towards the gathering of slaves. She could not feel how much blood there was; every limb seemed robbed of sensation.

"Tryphena," Andromache heard Eudorus say, "give me the sword." It was a tone all the slaves recognized and had Tryphena's wits been about her, she would not consider disobeying. They had all heard Eudorus shout in anger at various times, but this quiet, even voice that brooked no argument was infinitely more powerful.

His command glanced off Tryphena as rain on armor. Standing before Eudorus as rigid and fearless as any opponent he had faced, the Cretan bowed her head. Whether this gesture was a final gesture of submission to her master or the gods, no one knew, but what followed was seared into many a memory.

With the same deliberate calm that made Andromache once again think of Priam's palace slave, Tryphena turned the sword on herself, its blade pricking her stomach. One thrust, a twist, a gurgling scream. Tryphena and her unborn child fell into the dust.

No one had tried to stop her at the last moment when her unhappy and pitiful life could have been saved. No one now ran towards her twitching, expiring body. Everyone, including Eudorus, realized that the girl had long since died and this was only a macabre formality.

Andromache felt her legs give way beneath her and she followed Tryphena to the ground. The shock over, her head began to pound intensely and she wept until all went dark.

* * *

Andromache woke at the sudden sensation of drowning, but the warmth that surrounded her tempered her panic. If she was indeed dying, then it was comforting, glorious, and nothing to fear. She did not venture to open her eyes.

Something disturbed her hair; not the gentle wash of water, but rather something painful and intrusive. Her head, as if a separate entity and prodded awake, began to throb once more in furious protest, causing her stomach to flop with nausea.

"Mistress, please do not move," came Iasemi's voice.

"I didn't move," Andromache protested weakly, feeling as wretchedly alive as she had felt happily dead only moments before. She blinked long and slow, and the environs of the bathing hut soon came into focus.

Iasemi's familiar hands patted her shoulder. "Let the healer do his work and all will be better soon. Brace yourself now."

Before Andromache could ask what required her fortitude, pain seared through her scalp and seemed unending. "Gods!" she wailed. "What did she do to me?"

"The needle is as small as we can possibly make it," Iasemi told her. "Meton must sew the wound. It will be over quickly." She thrust her arm into the water and grasped Andromache's hand. "Break my hand if you must," she laughed.

Andromache answered with a faint smile. "It must be a minor wound. I know your laughter, Iasemi, and it doesn't sound falsely brave." She sighed. "I was a fool to try to stop her, and now I'm weeping like a child at what are nothing more than pinpricks." She hissed through her teeth as the thread was drawn through her scalp. Anticipating further pain, she braced her feet against the end of the bathing tub and set her jaw grimly.

"Truly, I am glad that you _did_ try to stop her."

Andromache started at Eudorus' voice and looked around, prompting a rebuke from the healer, but could not see who spoke. "Where is he?" she whispered to Iasemi. Reflexively, she drew her knees up to her chest. She knew not how much of her body was visible and if such a precaution was pointless, but her modesty demanded some action.

Iasemi nodded slightly behind them. "The master ordered a bath and immediate care for you."

Suddenly the water in the tub felt heated by the fires of Hades and Andromache's flushed face perspired anew. She remained still, every muscle tensed and aching, and had to remind herself not to crush Iasemi's hand.

Meton continued with his handiwork, but Andromache felt little pain with each tug of the needle and thread. She closed her eyes and counted the rest of the stitches, anything to occupy her mind against thinking about who stood behind her.

With a satisfied murmur, Meton tied off the thread and smeared a balm over the closed wound. It burned, first horribly, then tapered to a tolerable dullness. "I shall need to see you in the morning," he said, leaning over Andromache's shoulder. "It looks angry now, naturally, but I'm quite certain that dawn will not find it so inflamed. Do not tax yourself."

"That is not my decision to make," she replied wearily, "but it is sage advice. Thank you."

"Leave us," Eudorus said abruptly, though his tone was not unkind.

Iasemi gave Andromache a quick, pitying glance as she rose, squeezing her mistress's hand tightly in encouragement.

Andromache gasped in sudden realization. "Where is Phaedrus? He is not with you?"

Iasemi smiled. "Do not worry. He's in able hands. I'd have brought him with me, but I knew you would fret over his uninjured body more than your own."

"Very true, but if there is a next time when I'm in such a condition, bring him."

Iasemi nodded in patient understanding and hastened from the hut alongside the healer, leaving a vacuum in the room that Andromache felt was as vast as the heavens. She remained in her modest and defensive position, waiting.

Eudorus remained behind her, silent and out of sight, but Andromache felt his presence. It was as persistent and pervasive as a burnt offering in Apollo's temple.

What she had sensed as an abstraction soon became solid and real when his fingers ran through her hair, gently smoothing the wet, tangled curls.

"Please," she managed, "I don't think Meton would countenance such stress near my wound."

To her surprise, the ministrations stopped. "Very well, but I will speak with you." He crouched beside the tub and rested an elbow on his knee in the most casual of manners, contenting himself with a brush of his fingers against the locks of hair that lay against her cheek. "It is a strange household I keep," he said, "and that has never been more clear than today."

Andromache waited, expecting further observation, but it seemed he had expressed his final thought on the matter. She ventured a glance, but her gaze flickered away quickly, much against her will.

"You are afraid of me." The statement contained no surprise, no reproach. It was an accepted fact, but one he somehow felt compelled to reaffirm.

"I'd be a fool if I were not," Andromache replied quietly, her eyes still cast down in scrutiny of the bathwater.

"You did not fear a madwoman," he persisted, "and she was armed." He spread his hands. "Whereas I am not, and have never raised a hand against you."

"A false comparison," Andromache murmured. "She had lost her senses, but you have a solid grasp on yours. That poor creature was not Tryphena, not the girl who was free only a short time ago and probably never entertained malicious thoughts or contemplated such awful deeds."

"That still doesn't explain your actions, Nephele, and I'd like to know them. Very much."

The last two words were encouraging, even curious. Though she did not wish to delve into the matter, she must obey, and she paused to gather her thoughts.

"I saw her death if I did not try to turn her away from her madness. But it was all in vain, despite my efforts." Andromache clasped her hands together, fingers twisting anxiously.

"So you prefer that she ended her life in her own manner than…what I would have chosen?"

Andromache shot him a surprised look. "You would have slain her? Her, bearing your child?"

Eudorus stiffened. Andromache wondered if it was her blunt query that shocked him so, or the revelation that he had been, briefly and ignorantly, a father. But his unguarded reaction to whatever reason was only fleeting. "Maybe 'tis better she and the babe are dead," he said finally. "It's a fact that a child is a sum of its parents. Perhaps it would have been born mad."

Andromache wanted to retort that perhaps the paternal half of Tryphena's child would have been the less desirable, but before she could formulate a less rash response, he added, "What of your son? Is he the best of his mother and father?"

"I am not the person to ask. I'm afraid I cannot judge him dispassionately—" At Eudorus' stubborn expression that demanded an answer, she added, "—but he is a fair representation of my ― and my husband's ― good qualities." Her pride gave way to fear as Tryphena's taunt about losing her son to Myrmidon butchery flew to the front of her mind. "Have you plans for him?"

"I'd be a fool if I did not," he replied, smiling. "He's strong, brave ― and smart, I warrant. If he has one-tenth the wits of Odysseus, I'll consider myself well-served. Yes, I have watched him. Still so young, yet the gods' favor shines from him."

She smiled inwardly in bitter triumph at the thought of a Myrmidon recognizing and admiring the same qualities that his commander had so wanted to brutally destroy in Hector.

"When he is of an age, he must learn to fight and make our cause his," Eudorus told her. "Do you accept this?"

Andromache's mood faded fast. She nodded sadly, averting her eyes once more. "Yes. He would have done the same in service to Troy, had the gods' plans been different for our people. King Priam called for soldiers from every corner to secure his domains. My village was not spared from his recruiters." As she had tried to do since her arrival, the lies were based in truth. She did not yet fully trust her ability to speak falsehoods of whole cloth with convincing sincerity.

"Had the gods' plans been different, as you say, I wonder if I should have met him on a field some distant time from now. Yes, I would be old, but I fear that I have not yet seen the end of war."

Andromache felt her head begin to throb again, but the turn of conversation spurred her to continue. Eudorus' comment about further war was spoken with wry acceptance, but his face told another tale. The heavy brow had furrowed in concentration and the jaw worked in subtle agitation. She had noticed such expressions before and often wondered what these unspoken thoughts boded, for his disposition impacted all those around him. But she had never been in a position or situation to learn more. Despite her head threatening to split open in excruciating agony, she took a deep breath.

"More war?" she asked. "But King Agamemnon has his prize, does he not? Is his hunger not sated?"

Eudorus cocked his head, regarding her with amused curiosity. "You seem quite familiar with our good neighbor to the south. This is the second time today that you've commented on his motives. It seems you're quite convinced he means to exert his power in an unfriendly manner. You would be right, of course. I assume you have had experience with such a man?"

Andromache's mind continued to race. "Agamemnon's temper and character were known even in our small province, and we were not unaccustomed to the whims of our own king, who could be quite harsh if the mood so moved him."

"But you never met the man. Either man."

She shook her head. "Though they might share certain traits, as Priam's loyal subject I would be loathe to liken him to your king."

No insult was meant, but Andromache saw anger flare in Eudorus' eyes, his posture, his voice. "_Never_ my king," he spat. When he noticed her stiffen anxiously, he gave a quick, hearty laugh in a bid to dispel the tension.

"This king ― who is _not_ mine ― will be arriving shortly," he said. "Days…weeks…maybe a month. You heard Kallisto today. His feast will be much work for very little reward, no doubt. But it must be done."

He paused, his gaze steady and unrelenting. Andromache bore it as bravely as she could, grateful that though she indeed lay naked and vulnerable before him, his eyes had yet to wander.

"My lord?" she prompted.

"Nothing," he said abruptly. "The sun will not fall out of the sky if I speak of it with you at another time." Before Andromache could react, he reached out and took one of her wet hands in his. "Rest yourself. I have need of you and will ask the gods for their healing help. Head wounds are not to be taken lightly."

Andromache did not know what immobilized her more: his loose, warm grip or the solicitous words. All she could summon herself to do was nod mutely and offer what she hoped was a grateful wisp of a smile. A smile that quickly vanished when he let go of her hand and cupped her chin to turn her face more fully towards his.

When his lips met hers, she closed her eyes in an effort to remove herself from the wretched moment. Yet it had the opposite effect, despite the kiss being surprisingly gentle. The sting of whiskers against her mouth, the steely and penetrating smell of the soldier…

A flood of memories, more than she had ever summoned in her loneliest days of captivity, assailed her without pause or mercy. She opened her eyes in a desperate bid to banish the torture and wrenched her mouth away from his with an angry sob.

His fingers bit into her chin. Andromache did not resist and met his eyes, fearful of what she would see. There was anger there, not as intense as she had seen in the past, but she did not feel confident of stoking it further. So when he began to lean forward again, to claim another kiss from her, she suppressed her base instinct to flee or fight and remained motionless. Let him take of her what he wanted. She would do nothing to help or hinder him. Let it be over, whether just a kiss or if he dragged her from the tub to claim her on the dirt floor.

When nothing but air caressed her face, she opened her eyes to see him watching her pensively. His fingers fell from her chin. "Rest yourself," he repeated. "There are proper times for everything, Nephele. You will discover there are worse things than sharing my bed, and one of them is on his way here. You'll see the truth of that, I fear. Everyone will."

He stood and left the bathing hut without another look or word. Andromache stared dully into the water, Eudorus' bleak assessment of Greece's future at the hands of Agamemnon weighing more heavily upon her than the other, more intimate, reckoning.

Then, to her surprise, she felt a welling within her, a surge of white-hot hatred where once there had only been frustration and disgust. It was not aimed at the Greeks ― not at Eudorus, Agamemnon, or even the dead murderer of her valiant Hector.

_None of this would have happened had it not been for them._

She knew not where they were, but she desperately hoped Paris and Helen were begging for scraps and selling their tawdry talents and draining their beauty to its dregs.

_That_, she thought, _would prove there was some measure of justice left in this capricious, miserable game of the immortals. I hope they fully learn the meaning of suffering.  
_

* * *

_**Please review!**  
_


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The sun's warm and tender caress on her upturned face made Helen smile lazily as a contented purr hummed in her throat. With sinuous moves akin to the various cats that freely roamed about the palace, she arched her back against the cushioned divan upon which she reclined. She punctuated her contentment by flinging her arms over her head in languid fatigue.

Birds wheeled and sang overhead, the distant cry of a gull failing to interrupt the more melodic tunes of its brethren. It was a soothing accompaniment to slumber that rivaled the skill of the finest reed player. Combined with a sky of the most radiant blue she had ever seen, Helen marveled that such a thing as war and strife could even exist.

A shadow fell across her and she tilted her chin in curiosity and not a little annoyance at the thought of a slave disturbing her rest. She believed she had made it clear over the past several weeks that she did not suffer disruptions gladly. By anyone. Except…

Her lips curved into an immediate, welcoming smile at the sight of Pharaoh looming above her. The slightest of smiles was his response, although his eyes betrayed greater warmth.

Silently, she extended her hands to him as she remained in her supine position. He grasped them with seeming gentleness, but Helen could sense the carnal desire of this most powerful of men singing through his fingers. This potent elixir of lust and power, long absent from Paris, coursed through her veins and spirit. She wanted to drink of it as long as she could. More than any other wretched woman who ever drew breath, Helen knew how quickly fortunes could change, how low the mighty could be cast.

"It is fortunate for you that I possess an undue sense of propriety," Rameses told her, his voice seeming to Helen like a sensuous river of warm silk. "Otherwise, I should not care who would see us. I would have you now."

There was naught but assurance and command in Pharaoh's voice and bearing, though not in the manner of a heavy bludgeon, like Menelaus or Agamemnon. Instead, Rameses wielded it with such skill that one was persuaded to obey, if not believe in the rightness of giving oneself over to his command and will.

Helen wove her fingers through his and she laughed in equal parts enchanting and enchanted.

"You seem like such a child," Rameses marveled. "One would think you had never sampled rich and worldly pleasures before."

"I've felt born anew in this place," Helen confessed. "For weeks I have tried to understand what strange sensations have come over me. Rarely has a man affected me so." With an abashed downwards glance, she murmured, "I have suddenly become plain in my flattery. I used to practice it with a much surer hand."

"Subtle or not, it is a pleasure to hear it all the same," he said, releasing her hands and sitting in a simple chair opposite Helen's divan.

Helen turned onto her side and observed her lover. When she had hatched her plan to travel to Egypt and, if necessary, bed its ruler to procure his aid in her mission to regain Troy, she never imagined that she would enjoy the enterprise. In the splendor of Pharaoh's wealth and passionate company, she had quickly discarded any notion that she would have to close her eyes and submit with the bitter taste of bile in her mouth.

Rameses was an impressive and stately figure in his garish formal raiment, but he was just as commanding in the simple tunic he wore now, a belt and necklace of gold his only adornments. Without his double crown, ceremonial facial paint, and the absurd false beard of goat hair jutting from his chin, there was nothing to detract from his natural attributes, assets that were regrettably hidden to all but a circle of intimates. Granted, that circle cast a wide net over many scores of concubines and a palace staff that could form a small army, but there were hundreds of thousands who lived under the rule of a man known only as a fearsome, unworldly figure carved in stone.

She almost laughed in remembrance at her initial thought upon seeing Rameses with his head uncovered. Only old men had scant hair on their heads, and this virile man had not a one! Yet, it detracted not at all and, oddly, she soon ceased to notice it. With a shiver of anticipation ringing up her spine, she dwelled instead on his other assets that were ample compensation for a lack of beautiful, unruly locks as worn by Paris or Hector.

She sighed and felt a warmth settling in her loins, instilled by her own musings and fostered by the sun that blazed above. What harm was there in giving herself over to a moment of impetuous pleasure? There was now no danger of war being the consequence of lustful impulse. Paris would be angry, yes. _Was_ angry. His mood had been foul ever since coming to the palace, but there was no recourse and he well knew it.

With a surreptitious glance around the courtyard to assure herself of minimal eyewitnesses, she settled back onto the divan and held out a beckoning hand.

Soon the sun faded, replaced by a heat that dwarfed Apollo's radiance and the birds' songs above were joined by breathless cries from a queen who continued to dream that she would again soar high among them with a crown on her head and a scepter in her hand.

* * *

Paris strode down a hall of the vast palace, his bow clenched in a rigid, sweating palm. It had been a fair day's hunt and the escort Pharaoh had provided for the diversion had served him with respect, even if he fancied there was contempt in the eyes of some of the men. 

He knew why the excursion had been suggested. He had come to expect that such plans would be made for him almost daily. It had been an unspoken desire that he was not wanted within the palace, the better for Rameses to greater enjoy his wife without a nasty twinge in his royal conscience for cuckolding a guest under the same roof. It was this knowledge, that Rameses most likely was furiously making love to Helen while they hunted, which the escorts conveyed with snobbish pity in their eyes.

Even as Paris felt his younger, passionate self berate him to strike out at this humiliation, he found himself unable to summon the rage. In the past, doing so would have resulted in righteous satisfaction for him while most of the consequences were dealt with and soothed unseen by men charged to tend to the messes left by Priam's wayward son. It had taken him far too long to realize the chaos he had wrought by his foolish actions. And here, on Rameses' sufferance and forced to stand by while his wife whored herself for money and an alliance so he could sit upon a throne, all those impulses of old had to be leashed. It was agonizing and he was slowly beginning to wonder if he was going mad ― not with rage, but a crippling sorrow. He felt alone; Urshé, their erstwhile courier and aide, had seemed to cast his lot with Helen. It was apparent that the man felt she had more weapons in her arsenal than he did.

All this, coupled with the fear that he would be found extraneous to the whole enterprise or Helen would dismiss him entirely in order to pursue a course as Pharaoh's wife, preyed on his mind.

He did not see the small cluster of handmaidens approaching him since his gaze was cast downward at the floor in absorbed contemplation. They brushed past him, a flock of brightly colored birds that oftentimes swooped and darted about their business in an amusing yet fetching manner.

Suddenly aware of their presence, he looked up and was surprised to see the face of the last woman in the group. Usually their expressions were gay and absorbed with the frivolous trifles of their duties to Rameses' first wife and queen, Nefertari, but today solemnity reigned. He felt a pricking of dread.

Paris stopped and turned. "Is there something amiss with the Queen?"

The women paused and several bowed their heads together in hushed conversation. Then, while the others moved on, a girl of about fifteen with skin of the darkest ebony hastened to his side with watchful eyes fixed on the corridor behind him. Paris looked over his shoulder in curiosity.

"What is it?" he asked. "Is it the queen? Is my wife ill?"

She looked at him and Paris fancied he again saw that odious expression of pity.

"Out with it!" he barked, suddenly impatient.

The girl did not flinch, merely regarded him calmly. "The Queen, she wishes to see you. She is poorly today, and the other women do not want her disturbed, but I suspect that Her Majesty does not share their worries. She is really insistent on seeing you quickly, my lord."

Paris blinked. What could possibly move Rameses' wife to beg to see him? The queen had spent all of the time since their arrival in seclusion, and he had kept his ears open enough to hear gossip bandied about in the most hushed of whispers that Nefertari was succumbing to the clutches of a wasting disease and her vanity demanded that no one see her in illness. Paris had dismissed such talk as rubbish engendered by bored minds; Nefertari's influence with her husband by virtue of being his first and exalted wife was seemingly undiminished. In the admittedly brief time he had been in these exotic royal environs, Paris suspected that Rameses was a prideful man who was only prevented from letting his pride rule him disastrously by the diligence and sage advice from his queen. Even if the queen was ill, it had not sapped her of her vitality and faculties.

Curiosity began to gnaw at him, but he tried to hide it from the slave girl. He was unsuccessful, for she smiled at him knowingly and gestured for him to follow her.

Although Paris believed that he had seen much of the palace, he quickly came to realize that it was a small city, with numerous streets and alleys unexplored. He thought he had once seen the exquisitely crafted doors that led to Nefertari's quarters by some other route, but the black slave was leading him on a path that he could not recall. It seemed that every place was connected to another and led to another, which sometimes returned a dazed man to a quarter he had just passed through. Confusing to those who were unfamiliar with the maze but, to experienced eyes and senses, it provided a perfect means to escape and elude. Paris wondered if it had been built with the thought of rebellion in mind. Before any angry subjects could orient themselves, the royal family would have already fled.

Such a plan had made escape from Troy possible. Although, he thought bitterly, it had served Andromache and Astyanax only by delaying their enslavement for a few paltry days. He felt his gut wrench with the fear that they had either been slain or were suffering indescribable humiliations at the hands of the Myrmidons. Vainly he tried to shove the images of Andromache and her son from his mind. He could not think upon either of them without becoming sick with guilt.

The slave bowed and gestured to a plain door, made of wood so dark that it melted into the shadows. "The queen is inside," she said. "I will remain here to return you to your quarters."

"Thank you," Paris said, suddenly wary of the door's simple design. It was so at odds from everything he had experienced so far in a court that seemed obsessed with ostentation.

The girl opened the door and Paris stepped inside. His nostrils blanched at the smell of sickness; not vomit, for he was well acquainted with that particular stench after voyages at sea with men cursed with only land legs. Rather it was the smell of decline, of one slowly dying.

The room was not kept in entire darkness, but it was dim enough to make it difficult to see everything clearly at once. He blinked several times, forcing his eyes to quickly adjust. He had been at a disadvantage for so long that he did not wish another, especially when conversing with a queen.

"I am glad you're here, Paris," came a low, husky voice in his language, thickly accented.

He followed the voice with his eyes and was confident he was now looking in the direction of Egypt's queen.

"One of your servants accosted me and relayed your desire to see me," he said. "A young black girl."

"I apologize if Shashaiti was too forceful with my request. She is very devoted to me. She has made these past days very…tolerable. The others have begun to treat me like a corpse ready for the priests with their knives and linen, unable to think or speak for myself, but she knows I still have some life in me yet."

Paris found it difficult to believe that she would tolerate disrespect of any kind and he had seen no such attitude in the women he had just encountered, but said nothing since he didn't think Nefertari truly believed she suffered from persecution.

He advanced into the room and saw that there was an organized clutter, as though everything one could need had been positioned for easy access. He kept his eyes fixed to the ground to insure that he would not bump into or stumble over anything.

A soft chuckle came from Nefertari. "It is perhaps morbid of me to think this, but I have begun to live as I shall die. I envision that my tomb will be full of things such as these. I have had a list ready for years. A queen cannot enter the afterlife without her favorite combs."

The pleasant tone was racked by a cough, prompting the door behind him to open. Shashaiti hurried into the room and made straightway to a divan in the corner. Paris followed her and watched as the slave poured some honeyed wine into a cup and assisted her mistress in drinking it.

"Open the curtains, Shashaiti," the queen said. "It is suddenly too dark in here." The girl did as directed and bowed when Nefertari dismissed her with a kind wave of her hand.

Paris could now see the queen and he realized that the gossips had been sadly right. The voluptuous woman depicted on buildings and temples as Rameses' Beloved and Principal Wife was no more. A small, frail woman rested against several pillows, a blanket of bright scarlet and gold covering her from her waist down. Her hair was an obvious wig of jet black, so stark was the contrast between its youthful style and the wan face it surrounded. Her eyes were lined with kohl and every pain had been taken to give her a semblance of health and reverse the age that comes with intense sickness.

"Please sit," Nefertari said, gesturing towards a chair that had been drawn up alongside her divan. Between them was a small table upon which rested an unfinished game of jackal and hound. "Shashaiti has been valiantly trying to amuse me with this. And have no fear that you will be struck by my disease. It is not contagious, I assure you."

Paris lowered himself into the chair, uncertain what protocols he should observe. He bowed his head and murmured, "Your Majesty is kind to think of me and my health. I did not expect a private audience."

"Oh, I wasn't going to let your stay be deprived of my conversation. I was only waiting for my body to give me a comfortable day. They are more infrequent lately."

"I am sorry to hear of your illness," he said. "Surely the physicians have been of service to ease your pain?"

Nefertari made a face and shrugged. "I think they have long passed that point and now they're using me to experiment with new tortures and disgusting elixirs. I have no qualms about eating powdered locust or a spider soaked in monkey urine; such cures have worked in the past. But I've decided they no longer know what they're talking about. You should see some of the things they've pushed into my hand."

Paris smiled. "I've heard tell of your wisdom, but your humor has not received the same attention. You truly believe you're near death? You're meeting it so irreverently."

"Call it fear or impiety or whatever you wish. I have lived my life well and I don't want to end it with shrieks and tears like the day I was born. And I have had my fill of stiff ceremony. I've found these private audiences suit me so much better." She reached out and patted his hand, giving him a smile of such kindness and intimacy that he immediately understood why her influence and power had so long endured.

"There is no cure for me," she went on. "Strange growths have invaded my body and those mad concocters have been competent enough to remove some of them, but others have to remain. I fail to see which option is best. I will either die full of these parasitic tumors or perhaps under the knives of my doctors as they try to take them out. They have been skilled so far, but I cannot rely on that continuing."

Paris remained silent, thoughtful. "I imagine," he began slowly, "that it would be preferable to see your life out to the very last of its days and take no chances with the knife. The gods may intervene yet."

"That is the luxury of youth, isn't it? Every question has an obvious answer, and optimism certainly plays a part."

Paris looked down, his bronzed cheeks tinting red at this gentle rebuke.

"So how was the hunt?" came the kind inquiry. "You look pained. I should assume it wasn't successful?"

"I―" He swallowed stiffly, miserably. His past thoughts of what Rameses and Helen had done while he was out of their way surged to the front of his mind again and he was unsure if he could mask it completely from this queen's knowing and experienced eye. "It was a fine hunt. Pharaoh is kind to allow me use of his hunting grounds. He is a very generous man."

"Hmm." Nefertari picked up a game piece that had been laying on her blanket and fingered the head of the ivory jackal thoughtfully. "He is that. Have you or fair Helen any plans to remain here if Pharaoh will not aid you?"

"No. We mean to leave when the time is propitious. Troy is my kingdom and I mean to return to it, by one way or another."

"I am certain you shall…some day." She nodded in thought. "I know what is troubling you, Paris. Be assured that it will never come to fruition."

Paris looked up in surprise. "It already has!" he exclaimed. "My wife has no longer been mine, ever since we arrived."

"Great Rameses has never been fully mine, young Paris," Nefertari told him sternly. "Granted, I am his first wife and he is devoted to me, but I have shared him with countless others. I know that as soon as I breathe my last, young Iset-Nofret will assume my place. Even though my husband will take other wives as well, Helen will never be one of them, so you need not fear that."

Seeing the gathering of doubt on Paris's brow, she held up a finger. "Listen to me. Iset-Nofret is highly favored and will please him. I mean no evil words to your wife, but she is not easily contented. Her actions are proof of that. Also, I know it is a distasteful custom to your people, but if Rameses wishes to take one of our daughters to wife in order to sire more sons, then that demand will be met. I cannot imagine Helen would countenance such a thing, or biting her tongue if she finds it repulsive. No matter the beauty of a woman, Rameses has a fearsome temper and does not suffer gladly anyone who crosses him in his purpose. He may appear besotted by your wife, but I assure you, he is not. He will help Troy if he senses an advantage and I believe he does. I have spoken to him of it and he prizes my advice. But as for his final decision, time will tell, naturally. In everything he does, he strives to continue making his kingdom great and invincible. That is all that matters to him, as it should with all kings."

Paris bit his lip and looked at the far wall, anything to not meet the queen's eyes. "Is this your advice? Anything for Troy, even if it makes wreckage of all that I held dearly?"

Nefertari shrugged. "I don't like forcing such ugly truths upon a gentle spirit, Paris, but you have need of it. War should have forged you into a strong warrior with the makings of a king, and I believe it did. To some measure. But the work is not yet over. Sacrifice is not always done at the end of the sword or on the point of an arrow. One's heart, its tenderness and weakness, might be required as well."

"Why so concerned about Troy's future? Do you wish to have your rival rise out of the smoke?"

Nefertari smothered a sigh. "_Our_ rival is Greece. Agamemnon has fallen and the various kings will undoubtedly fall to squabbling for a time, but that cannot last forever. Some strong figure will take up the loose reins of power and set their sights on outlying nations so their treasury can be replenished. Troy was rich, but not enough to sate every one of those myriad kingdoms. That is the curse mortals bear: more is often too little. My husband has ruled for thirty years. Not many of his predecessors can claim such a feat. He will rule for many more, and I do not wish to see him attacked by a unified Greece as your city was attacked." She clenched the game piece anxiously. "The reports of Agamemnon's death have been reliable, yours above all, but I have this fear…this dread in my stomach that someone has played a trickery on us all. The Gods preserve us if it is so."

Paris was alarmed by her sudden anxiety and ventured to place a hand over hers. He looked into her eyes, calm and assured. "He was slain," he said. "I saw him fall. The wound was fatal. I have never been so certain of something as I am of that."

Nefertari nodded slowly and looked down at her bright, gay bedclothes with a smile of self-reproach. "I will trust you, Paris. I truly hope you will sit on your father's throne one day, with Helen at your side, and that you will find happiness and strength from holding onto both." With another sigh, this one tinged with pain, she reclined on the pillows.

Paris saw her pinched expression and stood. "Do you want me to summon your girl? I have exhausted you, I fear."

"Yes, please get her." Before he could turn away, she grasped at his hand. "I regret we could not speak longer. There is more I would say to you and I pray I will have the breath in me to do it."

Paris found himself gripping her fingers as his eyes burned with unshed tears of sorrow. He was seeing a mighty queen cast down by demons within her own body, soon to become an eternally beautiful gilded casket shut away in a dark stone tomb. Forever.

He had seen his brother, the mightiest prince among princes, struck down and dragged through dust and dung. Warriors naturally suffered brutal death. He accepted that. But what would Helen's death be? Would she, in thirty or forty years' time, be lying under similar finery that made a mockery of the decaying body beneath? Would he even care? Rameses was not by her bedside now, his famed devotion to his wife nowhere to be seen. If he accepted Nefertari's advice and sought to claim and rule Troy with the same relentless purpose as Rameses had done with Egypt, then it was possible that Helen would pass pain-filled days with a stranger while he pursued his latest concubine.

Nefertari smiled. "It_is_ worth the struggle, Paris. Even if we all die painfully, the glory and power is worth the pain. If we don't rule the world, then it falls to men like Agamemnon."

"Your fidelity and conviction in Pharaoh reminds me of another," he said. "I loved those qualities in her, even as I envied them. If she ever suffered from doubt, I never knew it."

"Ah, you speak of Andromache." When Paris nodded, she sighed sadly. "I should love to know her, speak with her. Her love for Hector was not unknown here, a tale from the lips of men on the trading ships. Do you think she still lives?"

"In the hands of the Myrmidons, better to be dead. Had she had a blade in her hand that day when she was taken, she would have robbed them of the prize of spoiling Hector's wife."

Nefertari looked doubtful. "From what I was told of her, she seemed to be of the finest metal: strong, but not so unyielding that she would shatter. I know the Myrmidons are fearsome, but every situation can be accommodated if one is willing to negotiate their dignity."

"Andromache would never do that," Paris insisted vehemently. "I don't believe she survived the journey to the mainland."

Nefertari's pained expression quickly vanished. Her gaze raked his face so strongly that he stepped back in alarm. "And if she does live?" she asked. "What do you suppose she is trying to do? If she is as proud as you claim, but not so proud to take her own life rather than suffer rape by a Myrmidon, would she be trying to escape? More importantly, does she still have her son with her?"

Paris straightened, aware of the queen's unspoken thoughts. _If Astyanax lives, then what importance am I? It is not my throne if that boy still breathes._"If their identities are known, Astyanax is long dead," Paris told her. "The Greeks were not averse to throwing royal infants from the walls of other cities they sacked. I have no reason to believe they would have treated him differently."

Nefertari said nothing, turning to look out of the window beside her. The view was of the Delta, but Paris imagined that she fancied she could see over the vastness of the sea and witness the plight of her queenly sister. "I would give my funeral treasure to see her safe," she said. "If you agree to work towards that end, my support will be spoken twice as loudly in Pharaoh's ear."

The ground felt fluid beneath him. Paris tried to grasp the turn the conversation had taken from genial advice to cold demands. Though Nefertari lounged on her sickbed, her bearing had assumed that of a sovereign upon a throne or an exacting negotiator. She was asking him to deliver his king into safety. What was this? A test of loyalty to his family? Or to himself? Or were the queen's wits simply failing her? Like a serpent, she had lured him here, put him at ease, and then struck.

"I would see Hector's son take his rightful place, should he live," Paris stumbled. "I would have his wife be safe once more. If I could have it so this minute, I would not hesitate. The gods will aid me if they wish. I cannot demand anything of them."

"I will speak to Rameses. Your wife will be yours tonight."

Paris balked at thanking her for such a humiliating favor. Instead, he bowed and retreated to the door. Shashaiti immediately appeared and went to Nefertari's side. Rather than wait for the slave girl to finish tending her mistress and guide him back through the corridors, Paris turned and retraced his steps, certain he could return to his quarters on his own devices. He now had one consuming thought and desire.

It was not for a throne, or even a position behind it as regent for his young nephew if the baby could be rescued.

He would have Helen and, throughout the night, he would wipe all memory of Rameses from her wicked heart.

* * *

Tl;dr author's note: 

I know next to nothing about Ancient Egypt. I'm placing the Trojan War around 1250 BC, although I've seen estimates from 1300 to 1050 BC and the movie says 1200 BC. No one can agree, apparently. I took the easy way out and picked a famous pharaoh so there would be ample materials to reference. Nefertari is said to have died somewhere between Rameses' 24th and 30th regnal years, of unspecified causes. Anyway, I hope I haven't offended any Egyptian history geeks out there with my rank amateur research. As much as I'm tempted to wing it all and say, "It's AU!" my conscience won't let me. LOL

Although I don't much like writing about Paris or Helen, I found this chapter a bit fun – mainly because of Nefertari. I hope I was successful in having her smack Paris around a little in what is required of a king, as well has making him hop to her demands and reminding him that he isn't the _de facto_ king.

OK, next chapter is back to Eudorus and Andromache. Aren't you glad?


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Within a day, Eudorus called Andromache to him. She entered the main hall to find him sitting at one of the long tables, eating a light morning meal before he embarked on the day's training and routine. He wore a simple black tunic, newly dyed by her own hands. She recognized its shoddy cut and stitching and recalled wanting to tear it apart and re-do the entire woeful thing. She did not know the original maker but the girl had no business holding a needle, whoever she was.

He gestured for her to sit down, which she did with some hesitation, hands clasped in her lap.

"In the bath yesterday," he said without preamble, "I didn't pursue a certain matter because it would keep until a later time. I believe I said that?" He looked up, a dripping hunk of bread poised over his bowl.

Andromache nodded stiffly, meeting his eyes with all the calm she could muster. _How could I forget anything that happened yesterday?_ she thought. Even now, she could still feel the roughness of his beard on her lips and the pinch of his fingers on her chin when he had forced her to look into his eyes. Iasemi had not commented on it, but she was certain that her sleepless night had made its mark upon her face in some way.

Eudorus bit into the sodden bread and chewed it quickly. "Kallisto may not like it, but I wish you to act as her captain in the kitchens. Beginning today. You have my permission to issue orders as well."

Stunned silence. Andromache cleared her throat gently and shifted in discomfort on the hard bench. "May not? She will not like it, my lord. I'm very certain of that. The kitchen is hers, as all around you is yours."

"As I said, it was a matter that required some thought. I would never take her lightly. But the kitchen is actually mine," he said serenely, "and she will cede when she learns I wish it."

Andromache heard the confidence in his voice, but wondered if he knew his old slave as much as he thought he did. Andromache could not conceive of Kallisto letting one order from her lips slip by without contest. She wondered if he felt his household slaves were a mere extension of the men he could order about on the training ground or in the battlefield. Domestic slaves required a subtle hand, not brute authority. She had seen the sullen glares of some of the slaves in Paris and Helen's palace, resentful of being ordered about by two lovers who felt the world owed them its adoration. Subtle, yet firm, guidance had been completely lacking in that gilded, unhappy palace.

"For how long?"

Eudorus smiled, but it was grim, humorless. "Through this damnable pretence of Agamemnon's as a kind, conquering king," he said. "Kallisto feels capable of doing everything herself, no question, but I can see her as she can't see herself."

"She is fortunate to have your concern," Andromache said, rising. "I will go there immediately."

"Not yet. There is something else."

She made no move to return to her seat. "Yes?"

He tossed the remainder of the bread into the bowl and pushed it away. Andromache took it, if only to give her hands something to hold.

"What of Tryphena?"

While the question surprised her, relief flooded through her limbs. The other matter she dreaded had not yet arrived, but she was curious about the turn of the conversation. "She has been buried. This morning. Her child, too."

Eudorus looked up sharply, but there was no anger in his features at this mention of his dead child.

"May I speak frankly?" Andromache ventured.

After recovering from the forthrightness of her request, he gestured for her to continue.

"You do not know much of us women," she said. "Tryphena might still be alive if she had had your eye and favor in more than…your preferred way."

"Do you think you're Hera, to talk a man's ears off about what he should or shouldn't do?" he demanded. "I was kind to her. If she found captivity too great to bear, then I regret she was taken from what she loved. But she isn't the only person to be plucked from one place and tossed into another against her will. Whoever desired her wits to break, they intended it to happen." His tone had grown hotly defensive.

_He's trying to assuage his guilt,_ Andromache thought. _It couldn't be more plain._ At the same time, she felt sorrow that she could not summon lasting outrage on Tryphena's behalf. She recalled the kitchen girl in Priam's palace whose mind had also broken under the yoke of captivity, and she had not been a concubine of any kind. Eudorus was professing innocence that his attentions had caused Tryphena's madness, and Andromache admitted to herself that it was possible he was correct. Her sadness deepened for Tryphena's broken spirit and the hated baby within her, but she felt a guilty surge of triumph that _she_ had not been broken. She still felt like Hector's shrewd and practical wife, able to accept ugly truths like Tryphena's death that was perhaps a fated doom. Maybe a seeress could point to the girl's blood on Eudorus' hands, but she saw no change in them from yesterday when she had been all too aware of them.

Andromache took a deep breath. "I am not familiar with all of the women, but I don't believe that there is another of Tryphena's fragile mind. So you shouldn't worry about being robbed of labor, progeny and pleasure in the rest of us."

As he listened, his expression remained unchanged. "For one so proud, you have been very accepting of your lot. That is rare. I have seen all manner of slaves and very few have borne it so well."

"I have my son and my memories. They shall last a lifetime."

His gaze flickered away from hers, and Andromache wondered — hoped — that an ounce of shame had pierced through that Myrmidon armor. Even if he was under the impression that her dead husband had been a merchant, lowly and corrupt and perhaps better off dead, she hoped that he was feeling shame at having deprived her of what little had remained, namely freedom.

"Come," he said curtly. "I'll speak to Kallisto now."

He rose and, as he brushed past her, she glimpsed those eyes that had always reminded her of the blocks of ice carted to Priam's palace from the wintry mountains to keep the wine chilled and the food unspoiled. But there was something different about his eyes now, as if the edge had been blunted.

She recalled the first time she had seen the ice, a marvelous luxury beyond the reach of her father but well within Priam's. Even now she remembered the savage bite on her finger as she had pressed it against the opaque surface in fascination, yanking it away only to see that the ice had turned transparent from the heat of her finger.

Wordlessly, she fell into step behind him and mulled over the possibility that she had finally glimpsed the man beneath the frost by pressing her finger in curious, fascinated insistence against the cold bite of his anger.

* * *

Although she had been terrified of Kallisto's reaction at an interloper in the kitchens, Andromache soon found it to be a surprisingly agreeable situation. The old woman naturally squawked loudly to all who would listen that Agamemnon's feast would surely be ruined by "that inept Nephele. The gods alone know why the master thinks her capable of anything!" But at the end of the sixth day, Kallisto had given her grudging praise in the form of not one insult passing her lips. In the weeks since, the situation had only improved. The women, at first unsure whether the concept of two mistresses was even possible, soon learned to navigate this new path with some dexterity.

In the past, Andromache had smothered her instinct to praise and instruct the kitchen slaves in the manner of her former life. But Eudorus' order that she share rule of the kitchen, at least temporarily, had allowed her to give it rein. She had done it in such a way that very few had complained, and none convincingly.

To Andromache's delight, her sudden dedication to one duty invigorated her and no longer did she feel torn and scattered to the four corners of Eudorus' lands. Working in the field and the drudgery of running buckets of water around were now the unhappy tasks of others, but Andromache secretly sought to right such suffering on her behalf. An extra ration of food was slipped to them by a winking Iasemi, and confused looks quickly transformed into grateful smiles.

"And tell Nephele I would rather wield a hoe than answer to Kallisto!" one man told Iasemi, tucking the pilfered bread and cheese into the breast of his tunic.

Perhaps to her greatest joy, Astyanax remained with her throughout the day, deposited on a smile pile of blankets in one corner of the kitchen each morning. His legs kicked merrily or in peeved fatigue during the times when he had not been lulled to sleep by the incessant chatter and din. When he wanted to play, she gave him a small pot and a spoon to beat it with. Andromache had never realized how much she missed her son during those times when she charged Iasemi to care for him when she could not.

For the first time in what had seemed a brutal eternity, Andromache felt a semblance of normality, a faint return to a life thought forever lost. But, though it was never completely forgotten, she sometimes had to remind herself that the reason for this happy return warranted her caution and attention. When Agamemnon arrived, she would have to marshal every wit and skill to see herself through the feast and whatever happened after it.

"Nephele, someone has just come," said Raisa, one of the kitchen women who had since become the kindest and most welcoming face to greet her each morning.

Andromache looked up from the large lump of bread dough she had been energetically kneading. "Do you know who?"

"I think he's a messenger," Raisa whispered. "He has some finery on him, but he isn't an impressive figure. He's bearing a shield with a gorgon head. That was Agamemnon's image during the war, was it not?"

The dough spilled between Andromache's fingers and she continued to mask her fear by pounding it further into submission.

"Well, I suppose this feast will finally be over!" she said with false cheer. She looked around the empty kitchen. The only ones at work were she, Kallisto and Raisa. The other women had been tasked elsewhere for the morning. "Don't chatter to anyone. Let the master go about it as he sees fit. But," she sighed, "I will wager that many of the others have seen this man. I can only hope one of my women won't speak stupidly and create a problem."

"_Your_ women?"

Raisa looked over at Kallisto, who glowered at this evidence that her power had indeed been deliberately usurped, as she had suspected all along.

"We will _always_ be yours, Kallisto!" she chirped, pounding her chest in salute. Before the old woman could reply, she returned her attention to Andromache. "You have more confidence in the master than I do, Nephele," she whispered. "While you've been busy with your head in pots and barrels, I've been watching him. And if I've never seen a more worried man, may I be flayed for a liar."

Andromache's kneading lost its vigor and she leaned toward Raisa attentively. "Worried or irritable? I know of no one who relishes this event. The master bears that King not one breath of goodwill. He has no reason to."

Raisa's whisper grew even lower and Andromache had to abandon her task in order to hear. She knew why Raisa had adopted such a hushed tone. Kallisto would only tolerate so much gossip about Eudorus and usually ended it by a sharp pinch on the arm or a thwack on the rump with her largest spoon. She had never received either, although most of the other women had several stinging rebukes to their name.

"Melaina told me this morning that he has not taken anyone to his bed since this whole talk of Agamemnon began. She was fuming that she had been called one night and then never again. What else could be the reason except he is worried to the end of his wits?"

When Andromache sighed and returned to her bread in obvious disinterest, Raisa persisted. "You've talked to him plenty since the announcement came. Surely you've seen it!"

"Raisa, you're talking nonsense, and so is Melaina. If either of you were half as interested in the master's food as you are about his other…concerns!" She took up a knife and quickly cut the large hunk of dough into six loaves. "Here, be useful and set these to rising. We shall definitely need them now. If the messenger is here, the rest of Agamemnon's escort cannot be far behind. Xuthos and Alcimedon are here anyway and some of the other Myrmidons will no doubt be sent for company. A full table will be expected. It will be a long night, I fear, so get moving."

Raisa took up a large flat-bottomed bowl and tossed the dough into it. "Some of the women are at the river with the washing. I'll go there and tell them what you said about not gossiping."

"I don't expect it to be heeded, but you can try."

Raisa nodded and completed her task before darting out through the door in the direction of the river. Andromache looked down at the messy table, and brought a floured hand of her mouth. Her eyes closed and she let a long, soundless cry escape from a throat sore from harnessing it. The moment had come and she would soon look upon Agamemnon and solve the greatest mystery no one here knew: How did he survive? Ever since hearing that he was still alive, she wondered if Briseis had imagined she stabbed him, if Paris had deliberately lied that he had seen it all. Or, and this frightened her most of all, could Agamemnon not be killed? The gods had certainly favored some among the Achaean horde. Why not the highest king among them?

"Nephele."

Andromache straightened and jumped slightly when she saw Kallisto standing beside her. The old woman's eyes were intent, but no malice glinted within them.

"That vapid fool can only think of one thing," she said. "So many of them do. When you're robbed of your possessions and freedom, I suppose the fight to have something — anything — means more than it should. Even if it is just laying underneath the master for a few nights." She snorted derisively.

"Some of them have just barely become women," Andromache offered with an understanding shrug. "It's tiring prattle, but harmless. They will leave it behind one day." She was silently grateful for Kallisto's interruption. Only moments before, she had been very close to letting her panic show, so weary had she become. For weeks she had held her fears in check, not even giving voice to them to Iasemi, lest she be overheard.

Kallisto's mouth quirked knowingly. "I think I'm upwards of fifty years or more, Nephele. These may be new women, but I've seen them all before. The hair may be dark instead of fair, and short rather than tall, or a pleasant voice and not hard on one's ear, but I know them all as if they were my children. Which they aren't, thank every god and goddess beyond reckoning. What a wretched brood that would be!"

Andromache found herself smiling at this, for the old woman's relieved expression was quite amusing but it quickly sombered.

"I walked down to the river not long ago," Kallisto said, "and passed the slave burial ground. Tryphena's soil has already begun to grass and I stared at it for an absurdly long time, thinking about what-I-don't-know." As if remembering her austere nature, she shrugged off this lapse into emotion with an annoyed toss of her head. "But then the master came upon me and we passed it by."

"Did he speak of Tryphena?" Andromache asked.

"Not a word, but that is not odd. The past is past with him; the heart no place for weakness. He only had that fault when it came to Achilles. Lay his life down for him, he would."

"Not many cared for that poor, wretched girl." She felt tired rather than bitter. "Perhaps the sorrow would have been greater if it was known she had taken her child with her. Killed herself because of it."

"Oh, some of them knew," Kallisto said, "if not earlier, then soon afterwards, and I put it to you that whatever sympathy they might have had for her vanished. The girl took her own life over a child who might not have even survived its first year, let alone its birth. Foolish…foolish…" She shook her head and turned, her attention immediately caught by Astyanax, who watched them from his tangled pile of discarded blankets. He was sitting upright, a crust of bread in one hand that he alternately ate and tried to destroy.

"Is he your only child?" she asked.

"There was another," Andromache replied. "Born dead, long ago. This one has all the strength and will the other lacked. I still ache to think on it, for all the time that has passed."

Kallisto nodded. "All this talk of dead babies, as if the world would crumble should one die. You lost one child, but your next is twice as strong. Things happen for a reason, and if Tryphena was fated to die to prevent something she or her child would do, then Zeus wills it. I, for one, think the babe would have gone mad like its mother."

"That is the second time I have heard that," Andromache said, going to Astyanax and picking him up. This talk of children and death had prodded her to take joy in his vigorous, wonderfully alive little body. "Kallisto, have _you_ ever had a child?"

"Of course I have, though none still live. A sickly lot they were, half of them. Those that didn't die from illness, died from working. The others went off to war and never returned. And not one of them could have cared for me as much as the master has."

A few times the thought had crossed Andromache's mind that Kallisto's devotion to Eudorus was not just the bond of slave to a generous master, but one of blood, and that the stories of a divine father were concoctions to soften the blow of bastardy. Iasemi had planted this suspicion of parentage only a couple weeks ago, after seeing the two of them conversing beside the river in the manner of a mother comforting a son. "I could hear nothing," Iasemi had reported, vexed at her failure at complete success, "but she brought his head down to her breast and stroked his hair like you would a sad child. She _is_ his mother, and I would swear it to Zeus himself!"

"Kallisto?" Andromache began. She bit her lower lip in hesitation, but decided to press ahead. "Is the master your son? I have only seen such fierce adoration in women towards one of their own."

Rather than take offense at this bold question and all it entailed, Kallisto leaned against the table and crossed her arms slowly over her chest. "I have known my brave Eudorus longer than anyone else ever since I drew breath," she said. "None of my departed children can say half as much. And if you call a mother a woman who had a crying baby thrust into their arms when they were only ten years old and told to take care of him, then yes, he is my son. That is what his mother did when Echecles took her to wife and hied her off to his home, not long after she gave birth. I was her father's slave and it was Polymele's wish that her infant son be raised by his house. The task was given to me and I've spent my life doing it." She sighed. "Just as I have seen girls like Raisa before, this gossip is not new to me. No, I would swear on whatever and to whoever you wish that his blood mother was Polymele and his father Hermes, slayer of Argus."

Andromache had heard this story before and her doubt was plain. "I respect you, Kallisto," she said. "Please don't insult me with children's tales."

Kallisto's brows shot up in surprise, a trait Andromache noted that Eudorus also displayed when he heard unexpected news. "This advancement here in the kitchens has loosed your tongue quite considerable. One would hardly recognize the teary, meek mouse that first arrived. Obviously the change has done you good. What is it? You're back where you belong?"

"Every woman likes to have her voice listened to in the kitchen," Andromache said placidly. "Even a lowly freewoman has more control than a slave who can only obey orders. I missed it." She smiled and shifted Astyanax to her other hip.

Kallisto regarded her silently, and Andromache had the sensation of the woman's dark, hawkish eyes trying to pierce through the layers of deceit she had wrapped around herself. _If anyone could find me out,_ Andromache thought,_ it is Kallisto._

But if the older woman entertained any suspicions, she kept them unspoken. Pushing herself away from the table, she returned to her work and gestured for Andromache to do the same.

They worked in silence for awhile and then Kallisto began to laugh softly.

"Respect me, do you?" she chuckled. "Well, I can't return the sentiment just yet, but you have been one of the least bothersome women in a long while. Pray continue it."

* * *

Thanks for all the reviews! I appreciate them so much and, no lie, they really got me writing fast and furious. 7 pages in 1 1/2 weeks. That's unheard of for me! I'm SO pumped! So much so that I'm having to put off Agamemnon's arrival until the next chapter or else this chapter would end up being a monster. I know there wasn't much with Eudorus in this one, but I wanted to show that Andromache's not forgetting who she is and is letting a bit of the princess show. :-) Here's hoping the next chapter will be up just as quickly... 


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

If none of the women ― Andromache's or Kallisto's ― uttered one word about the arriving messenger, it mattered little in very short order. The news passed from one end of quarters to the other through other mouths, around wells, over washtubs, in the fields. The looms clacked and clattered as always, but even they could not drown out the heated and excited speculation of what would happen once the Mycenaean king arrived.

The weavers had earlier received a particularly important task: to make a robe of singular design and decoration as a gift for Agamemnon's wife, the queen Klytemnestra. At the time of the messenger's arrival, the outer layer was two-thirds finished and of deep blue-black wool shot through with threads of scarlet and gold. The lining was to be of bright gold silk, the fabric contributed by Peisander, captain of the third Myrmidon company under Achilles. The three women charged with the task ― Iasemi, Melaina, and Charis, an elder priestess from Lesbos ― had acquitted themselves diligently from dawn to dusk for days, but now that Agamemnon's arrival loomed closer than ever, tempers grew shorter and fingers more uncertain.

"The witch had best think it the most beautiful robe created straight from Athena's loom," Iasemi said one evening as she inspected her raw fingers in the candlelight.

She and Andromache had retreated to the kitchen with a candle to converse unheard. The evening's dinner was over: Myrmidons, their slaves, and one Mycenaean guest sated and exhausted ― from eating and drinking for some, preparing and serving for others. The women's quarters were overflowing from the women brought by several of the other Myrmidons, and Andromache felt her privacy had shrunk to the point of invisibility. The kitchen provided an ideal refuge from the night chill and a quiet place to think, plan, and reminisce.

Astyanax lay cradled in Iasemi's lap, asleep, and the girl toyed with his hair, twisting it into fanciful locks. "I would hate to think I tolerated Melaina all this time for something the queen will only give to her dogs to sleep on," she complained.

Andromache laughed. "I would rather have their dogs be comfortable than Agamemnon and his wife look dressed to rule the world." She bent closer to her light, threaded her needle, and began to mend the torn hem of her spare gown.

"Why are you stitching in the dark?" Iasemi asked.

"Because there is simply not enough daylight anymore," was the reply. "If I had thought the kitchen was consuming before, it most definitely is now. I haven't even seen this messenger yet and he has been here two days."

"Melaina talked to him today. I think she flaunts herself shamefully, but she had much to tell us when she returned." She sniffed. "Just as well. While she was gone, we began to piece the robe together and she is so clumsy with a needle. Weave, yes; sew, no. Some of the things she has done make flour sacks look attractive."

Andromache smiled and leaned closer to the candle, eyes fixed on her garment in the poor light. "I believe I saw her handiwork on someone the other day," she said, immediately recalling the forlorn-looking tunic Eudorus had worn. "I wondered who had made it. At least you and Charis are more adept than Melaina. It should look splendid." Seeing that Iasemi looked doubtful and hoping to turn her mind to other matters, she nudged the girl's foot with hers. "So, what did she have to say about the messenger? What news from Mycenae?"

"That Agamemnon is blessed by Zeus, naturally," Iasemi sniffed. "At least that's what he told her."

"So do tell me! How did that villain survive?"

Iasemi shook her head. "Melaina was talking so fast and often made no sense to Charis or me, but from what she said it sounds like Agamemnon did get stabbed, but the strike barely missed being fatal." Iasemi leaned closer from her position on a small stool at Andromache's knee. "And," she whispered, "Agamemnon is saying Apollo struck down on the spot the viperous bitch of Achilles who dared try to murder the gods' favorite."

Andromache's eyes widened, Agamemnon's boast shocking her for its sheer audacity. "Oh! So, I suppose Apollo's patronage and favor towards Troy was a sham for all those years! Then why did he suffer Briseis as his priestess? Her temple vows would have caught in her throat since Apollo would have known of her future treachery." She shook her head in wonder. "If that odious man could grant his own wishes, the world would crawl into his hand and beg to be crushed. But I suppose his lies will become truth, eventually. Victory may turn all Greeks to prize that above honesty or modesty. That sly fox Odysseus may protest if Agamemnon poaches his own achievements. Mycenae would have led a pitiful force had Odysseus not marshaled more men and nations with that clever tongue and devious mind. Only he could have concocted that wooden horse and talked men into seeing his plan through."

"That is another thing!" Iasemi continued, breathless. "There is such a mystery around Odysseus now! He is not to be found! He sailed from Troy with others, but his ship was lost. Not sunk, but lost."

"Good," Andromache muttered pitilessly. "May he rot wherever he is, and his carcass feed the maggots."

Iasemi watched silently as Andromache stabbed her needle through the frayed fabric in angry distress, aching for her mistress, wishing she could absorb at least some of her sorrow. The mounting tension in the past several days had taken a toll on Andromache, and Iasemi had watched it creep across her features with furtive insistence. She knew Andromache wanted to look Agamemnon in the eye as much as she feared the opportunity, wanted all the Greeks to suffer the most tormenting flames of Hades as much as she wanted the whole horrible matter to be forgotten. Above all, Iasemi suspected that her mistress wanted Eudorus' attentions to come and go as much as she fought to postpone the ordeal. She had never seen her look so worn and ready to break, never had there been such prolonged periods of unhappiness in days before the war. Andromache's return to a position of command, even if shared with Kallisto, had been an obvious improvement on her spirits, but it was not enough. _What could possibly be found in slavery to make a princess, a queen, feel whole again?_ Iasemi thought sadly.

"Tell me of this queen of Agamemnon's," Andromache said, interrupting Iasemi's thoughts. "I know so little of her. Helen was not talkative on the matter of her sister, and I don't know if it was out of shame, jealousy, or something else."

Iasemi heard a returning calm in her mistress's voice and breathed a happy sigh of relief. "The messenger had little to say, even after Melaina told him of what was being made especially for her. I don't think all is well in that House. They have three children and the man made an odd comment about the family divided as on a battlefield, like most families."

Andromache said nothing, but she paused in her mending, expression thoughtful. "These Greeks. What feral creatures they are," she finally said. "Will Klytemnestra bring war on her husband's family, as her sister did?" The bitter tone had crept into her voice again, but this time she seemed aware of it, for she dropped her mending into her lap with a disgusted, angry cry and cradled her face in a palm.

Iasemi looked down to see Astyanax shifting in half-sleep, as if becoming aware of his mother's roiling emotions. She grasped one of his hands and wiggled it to keep his mind on something playful.

"I suppose Klytemnestra is no happier than many of us on the wrong side of Agamemnon's will," Andromache said, wiping at her eyes in a bid to compose herself. "I retract what I said about the dogs deserving the robe. It seems she has need of some affection, even if it is just the embrace of clothes."

Iasemi bit her lip. "It's foolish of me, but I'm so nervous about it. I've sewn for princesses and kings!" At that, she smiled sadly at Andromache.

"I wore them with pride, child. I wish I could wear one of those gowns again. You don't know how much." Her voice faltered and when she saw the faded, worn gown in her lap, her face again crumbled into anguish. The feel of Iasemi's comforting hand on her shoulder only made her weep more.

"Please, mistress, don't cry so!" the girl tearfully implored her. "No one back home would know the difference in you between then and now." She lowered her mouth to Andromache's ear. "Prince Hector would say you were just as beautiful in rags as in all the richest dresses in Babylon!" she whispered.

Andromache grasped at her hand and squeezed it tightly, any further sobs she might have voiced going into that gesture. They remained like that for awhile, Andromache's hold gradually slackening. Finally, she said hoarsely, "Talk, Iasemi. About something. Anything."

Iasemi let Andromache slip her hand out of hers and watched her mistress return her attention to her garment with a sniff and final brush of her palms over tear-stained cheeks. She recognized the gesture. There would be no more tears. Until the next time.

Every spell now came at a longer interval, and every morning after every night that Andromache cried, she looked revived and ready to withstand the next bout of labors. Still, Iasemi wished she could know the day when the tears would finally stop, but she somehow doubted that day would ever come. Never had she seen two people as intertwined as Prince Hector and his wife, never had she believed that one could live without the other. But her mistress had done it ― and done it admirably. Yet on occasions such as this, it was plain that "living" became not something to enjoy, but endured.

Iasemi sighed softly and decided that her usual chatter was what was required. Andromache never seemed annoyed by it, and usually requested it when Astyanax seemed fussy and unwilling to sleep. Whenever she began to relate the day's events and gossip, the boy quickly succumbed from either calm or resignation. And she noticed that it also had a calming effect on her mistress, who often put her work aside and closed her eyes until she too fell asleep.

"Could you come with me to the weavers hut tomorrow?" Iasemi began. "Just for a short time, just to see how I've done and if you think it's been done right. Charis will have no objection. Melaina might be put out, but only because I think Raisa told her that you think she's ridiculous for being so upset about the master not calling her back for another night and she hates to be called stupid or anything less than wonderful…"

* * *

"If Iasemi hadn't brought you with her, I would have sought you out myself," Charis told Andromache the next day, motioning her to come inside the weavers' room.

Charis was an older woman, appearing to be closer to Andromache's age than Kallisto's. Her hair was black as midnight, except for two streaks of silver at her temples, and usually fell loose to her waist unless her tasks endangered it. When she was at the loom, it was in a braid and looped around her head like a coronet. On days such as this, when she was only sewing or doing other menial work, it tumbled like a river down her back. Her face was somewhat lined with care and worry, her features pulled into a mask of solemn determination. Andromache recognized the expression. She had seen it on her own face often enough when looking at her reflection in a bucket of water. She hadn't looked at herself in some time, but she felt quite refreshed today, as if her crying the night before had lanced a boil and drained her of accumulated poisons.

"Iasemi asked that I come today to look at her progress," Andromache began, casting a quick glance at Melaina, who was sewing the second sleeve onto the robe. Upon seeing Andromache, she paused and stared at her in chilly interest.

"I hope it doesn't upset you, Charis," Iasemi said, noticing Melaina's expression while at the same time dismissing it of direct comment. "Nephele knows my needlework more than I do and this is for a queen after all. I'm silly as a goose about it."

"Of course not," Charis replied. Although she didn't smile, there was no hint of resentment in her look or tone. "The reason why I was going to chase you down, if need be, was that we need someone to wear it while we finish. We have the silk all sewn in and the sleeves are half-done― Oh, you're nearly there, Melaina?"

"Queen Klytemnestra is a very tall woman, as are you," Melaina added with a bit of importance at knowing such a thing about Agamemnon's wife. "Charis believes you would be useful in tailoring the robe to as perfect as we can make it."

"Why, certainly," she replied with irrepressible cheer. She turned to Iasemi who stood behind her and gave the girl a knowing smile and a slight roll of her eyes in Melaina's direction. _You were quite right, my girl,_ she conveyed._ I think Melaina didn't appreciate me calling her ridiculous. _Iasemi hide a smile behind her hand and coughed.

"Let's finish this quickly," came the same self-important tone. "I've been commanded to attend Hyrtius in the bath midday, at his request."

Andromache brought a stool next to Iasemi's and took a seat to wait patiently while the three women resumed their work. "Iasemi tells me you know Hyrtius quite well," she said with a genial lilt of inquiry. "I confess that his name is all I know of this messenger."

Melaina tossed her head, as though considering whether to respond. Andromache noticed that Charis cast a furtive look at Melaina's stitches, her mind as always on the task before her. Andromache did not know Charis well, but she was aware that the former priestess tolerated foolishness even less than she did blasphemy.

"Your thread is too tight," she admonished. Melaina pressed her lips together and corrected it with brusque efficiency.

"Nephele, is this correct?" Iasemi asked innocently, holding up her previous day's stitching for inspection. It was done perfectly, as both knew it was. Andromache felt an urge to give the girl a cuff on the ear for her deliberate mischief. Melaina was obviously easy to provoke and hard to placate. If the girl was still irked over her comment to Raisa about her frivolous obsession at not returning to Eudorus' bed, then Andromache did not need those fires further stoked.

"The stitches are a bit too small," she said, and nearly laughed at Iasemi's startled expression.

"Hyrtius has been Agamemnon's emissary and messenger ever since Troy fell," Melaina said, wrenching the conversation back to her and her assumed proprietary knowledge. "He distinguished himself during the burning of the city and aided Agamemnon in sorting through the ruins and restoring order."

"There was already order aplenty," Iasemi said tightly. Unseen, Andromache poked the girl in the back in a warning to bite her tongue.

"Order at the expense of much that lay around it," Melaina replied just as sharply. "Troy used its position as a means to squeeze monies out of everyone who dared ply the waters to the inner sea. More than one family saw their wealth disappear into Priam's coffers as tariffs and taxes were raised higher year after year. No wonder Agamemnon strove to sack that city to the ground. It was a mountain of gold that should not have belonged to one greedy family."

Andromache was speechless, struck by the fervent conviction in Melaina's diatribe. "Where are you from?" she asked when she had found her voice. "I lived in the south and never did I hear such brutal words spoken about King Priam and his family." It took tremendous effort for her to speak in an innocent, detached manner while inside she fumed at this slander of Hector's and his father's administration of their kingdom.

"I lived in the wrong place, and my father pursued the wrong trade," Melaina said simply. "And his father before him. Their trade forced them to go back and forth through Troy's precious waters and there was no hesitation on Priam's part to demand payment each way. The city was a parasite! And what good did all that wealth do them? Nothing!" This last word was spat out with satisfaction.

Andromache felt Iasemi tense beside her and ready to retort, but she laid a hand on the girl's arm and pointed at some invisible mistake in the needlework. Iasemi reluctantly relaxed and inspected it, but her jaw was set so rigidly that Andromache feared it would break.

"Enough of that," Charis said finally. "It's all over and done, and you apparently find this situation much more to your liking anyway, Melaina. Instead of sitting at home and watching your father come home with less money in his purse each time, you're cavorting with a king's emissary. I'd be pleased if you would shut your mouth about it."

Andromache shot Charis a grateful smile, which the priestess did not see. Melaina noticed it, however, and returned to her work with a sullen glare.

A very uneasy silence descended over the room and Andromache withdrew into her thoughts. She could not believe that Melaina had spoken the truth, although she did not doubt the sincerity of her sense of injustice. Troy had demanded those fees in order to protect itself and, by extension, protect the region. That required money. Until Agamemnon had landed his forces on the shores of Troy using Paris and Helen as a convenient pretext, peace had reigned for some years and was one of the achievements Priam had treasured above all else. It had been his twelve labors ― not feats of strength but triumphs of diplomacy and persuasion.

Yet it had been demonstrated just now that all of that mattered nothing, that hatreds ran deep like a lethal, unseen current. Andromache was not blind to the fact that Troy had been resented; power usually was, and Hector had not been averse to discussing such matters with his wife after he realized she had a sound ear for it. But in her most fanciful moments since becoming another's to control, she had imagined Troy rising from the ashes, borne aloft by grateful peoples from the region who would gladly fight to have their former ruling house restored. Agamemnon and the Greeks were the alternative and who, if they possessed even one rational thought, would make such a dangerous bargain?

That vision now seemed harder to achieve, if Melaina was indicative of general feeling in some quarters. If Troy's rightful rulers were to retake the city, it would require immense support and strong allies. She could do nothing here, now. She was powerless. There were only two forces able to roam freely that had any measure of clout to gain a hearing from kings or resourceful mercenaries willing to gamble: Paris and Helen, and Aeneas and Briseis. She had no information that either was working towards returning to their home. _A vain boy and his silly, beautiful wife, and a clever boy and a grieving priestess_, she thought. _If they are making progress or even if they are not, I will do everything I can. Time. It will take Time. Be patient._

She was prodded from her thoughts by Charis asking her to stand so the finished robe could be set around her shoulders. She slipped her arms through the sleeves and could not suppress a sigh at the feel of silk once again touching her skin, a sensation that evoked all sorts of happier days and moments. But she did not cry. Not one tear stung her eyes.

_I will one day wear again a robe such as this in my own right,_ she thought. _I will see my son made King and I will stand beside his throne. Hector will rule through me, and through me, our son._

When Charis suggested to her that she step outside so that the final alterations could be done in better light, Andromache gathered the edges of the luxurious garment in her hands and walked out into the dusty yard with unhesitating, stately grace.

* * *

"Not to cast an ulterior motive on you, Eudorus, but this amassing of Myrmidons has caused me to think once or twice that something is afoot."

Eudorus leaned over and plucked a grape from the bowl of fruit that sat on the table. He popped it into his mouth with a grin at the Mycenaean emissary. "Agamemnon won't be coming alone, and I should hate to disrespect him by having only a few slaves here to welcome him. That would suggest to the King of Kings that I harbor feelings I most certainly don't have."

Hyrtius shrugged and seized a large apple with a grunt of relish. He bit into it with like gusto and wiped away the dribble of juice before it could run into his beard. "The test of hospitality is not yet over. The forerunner has already come. Not much time left to prepare, Eudorus. He will be here tonight."

"You've seen a full table every night. Everything is ready. All that is needed is for Agamemnon to appear."

Hyrtius walked away from the table and considered the suit of black Myrmidon armor that hung on a crude stand in the corner of the small room. The snug chamber was filled with similar martial souvenirs and instruments, serving as a visual summation of a successful soldier in a successful tradition. Some objects were unmistakably those of Achilles, loot gained from engagements in every region where his bloody services had been deployed. Hyrtius suspected that Eudorus displayed them with an aim towards assuming some of his dead lord's glory and menace.

And he had done it to some success. The man certainly looked the part of a strong, wealthy leader of others and ever ready to take to the field. Hyrtius was no stranger to the Myrmidons and their particularly unique character. He had witnessed it in close quarters during that interminable quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles: a ferocious intractability and overpowering physicality that could cleverly hide softer emotions underneath. For Achilles, that weakness had been a Trojan priestess and an overweening pride that actively sought to be offended. For Eudorus…

He was as yet undecided, but Hyrtius had been gradually coming to the conclusion that Eudorus strongly desired a respite from war, from strife, from mindless slaughter even if those things had been gladly pursued in the past under Achilles' command. Hyrtius had a feeling that if Agamemnon assured Eudorus that he would not force him or the other Myrmidons to serve at his beck and call and truly meant it, Eudorus and the others would be neutralized. At least for a time. Hyrtius suffered under no delusion that the loyal soldiers of the Phthian butcher would forever turn their backs on bloodshed. When Eudorus returned to his true nature, Agamemnon would have work for him to do.

"Alcimedon and Peisander are already here," Hyrtius said, referring to Achilles' third and fifth captains who had joined Eudorus at his holdings upon receiving word that Agamemnon would be arriving shortly. "Can we expect any of the others? Phoenix? Menesthius?"

"Phoenix left Troy for the Hittites. They have need of experienced horsemen. Menesthius―" Eudorus smiled. "If he can make port and isn't detained elsewhere, he will be here."

Menesthius was the one thorn that Hyrtius was determined to pluck out of his and his king's skin. Already, the man had turned away from the honest work of wetting his blade with blood in exchange for gold, and instead taken up the life of a coastal pirate, robbing honest men of their money and goods. Two of Agamemnon's homebound treasure ships had already fallen prey to the bastard, and one of Hyrtius' directives from his king had been to keep a watchful eye on every item in Eudorus' household. So far he had yet to see anything from Agamemnon's inventory, but that said nothing about whether Eudorus and Menesthius had dealings with each other or not. It was Hyrtius' suspicion that Menesthius took care of the sea-bound side of affairs while Eudorus tended to those ashore. Myrmidons were bound as brothers in blood. They squabbled most certainly, but to assume that they would forever scatter to the four winds upon Achilles' death was rash.

Eudorus held out a cup of wine and Hyrtius took it with a curt word of thanks. As he drank, he looked at the Myrmidon over the rim and again noted the casual yet fine robe he wore, the new sandals, the long black hair styled in the manner of a man trying to strive for leisure than the brutality of a battleground. And it ill-suited him, for all his affectations. Hyrtius was glad the cup masked his smile. Agamemnon could bring this man to heel easily enough with patience and skill. He had recovered from the wound that woman of Achilles had inflicted, recovered with a greater desire to fulfill a destiny he was convinced the gods intended him to complete. Hyrtius knew his king well. Agamemnon would let nothing stop him this time. Not a Myrmidon, and definitely not a deceitful woman.

"Well, this was very pleasant," he said with a smack of his lips and an appreciative look at the empty cup. He set it down. "And now, with your leave, I shall like to retire to the bath with that lovely Melaina you have so generously given to me for the duration."

"She is most obliging," Eudorus agreed, allowing Hyrtius to exit the room first. "I suspected she would find favor with you."

"I have heard you guard your women as jealously as some do their gold," Hyrtius commented. "While admirable, I believe you know that it can have some unintended consequences."

Eudorus glanced at him quickly. "I am all too aware of that," he said. Both knew Hyrtius spoke of Achilles and his temple priestess. "But this girl is willing, her blood is base, and I have no partiality towards her. You are welcome to her."

Hyrtius laughed. "I think Agamemnon will find this meeting to his great liking. You are dispassionate in a way that Achilles never was. The Achaeans need no complications now. The pieces of an empire are on the ground and everyone can pick them up. Agamemnon has no desire to keep them all for himself."

Eudorus said nothing, but his expression clearly said that he was skeptical of such protestations of good faith and generosity.

Abreast, they traversed through the vast yard and Hyrtius again took stock of the various huts and buildings that were in varying stages of construction. The investment in making it a permanent settlement was considerable, the vision that had birthed it clear-thinking and solid. He was especially struck by the seeming compliance of those under Eudorus' power into following their master's directions. For a unit that was heavily peopled by non-soldiers, it had an aura of regimental efficiency. _What a pearl,_ Hyrtius thought._ What a jewel. I will have to dissuade Agamemnon from seizing it, for I know that will be his first impulse._

He stopped when he saw a gathering of four women outside a building he identified as the weavers' shop. Racks of newly dyed wool dried in the sun. But the bright skeins were not what held his attention.

One of the women was standing immobile in an elegant robe of intense black, her back to him and Eudorus, while three others knelt in varying positions with needles quickly at work. Apart from her height, the only other observable part of her was a long, loose braid of hair the color of rich cinnamon. Her arms were held out from her sides so that the long sleeves looked like the wings of a raven ready to take flight. One of the kneeling women finished her alteration on the bottom of the sleeve and rose to her feet. Hyrtius saw that it was Melaina.

"Turn around, Nephele," another of the women said, and she and the last girl stepped back. "I want to see it from every side. We must be done or nearly there."

Hyrtius saw a graceful neck, like that of a swan, tilt to the side as she held up one arm, then the other, to inspect the sleeves. When the oldest of the seamstresses twirled her finger insistently, the robed woman obeyed with a laugh and merry flick of her wrists.

The first thing Hyrtius noticed was that he had rarely seen such a fitting match between a garment and its wearer. Although the woman wore a simple, unadorned dark gown, her shape was slender and was shown to stirring effect against the bright gold silk that lined the robe. The long, visible triangles within the sleeves seemed to emphasize her already considerable height. He racked his brains to recall a statue that was crafted so well.

Almost as an afterthought, he saw that the woman's happy expression suddenly muted upon realization that she was being observed.

Hyrtius turned to Eudorus, mouth open to ask him who the woman was, but he stopped when he saw the Myrmidon's face. As always, Eudorus' expressions were not things easily deciphered, but his eyes had at once struck Hyrtius as being as close a view into his heart and mind as anything else about him. Those eyes were now fixed upon the woman, and they glinted attentively. As if in further confirmation, Eudorus' throat visibly clenched with a tightly harnessed swallow.

Hyrtius had seen all degrees of lust in his lifetime, most of them courtesy of his king, but the rapacious glitter that often sparked the eyes of Agamemnon was completely absent here. It was absurd, but one word immediately flitted through Hyrtius' mind.

_Reverent._

"Your wife?" Hyrtius asked. "You keep her stuffed in the women's quarters from prying eyes?"

Eudorus turned quickly and, though the silence lasted only a brief second, it struck Hyrtius as very telling. The man was fighting to regain his previous lordly composure. "No," he said finally. "She's only helping with my gift to Klytemnestra. She oversees in the kitchens."

One of Hyrtius' eyebrows rose in surprise. "What a shame," he commented as Eudorus hastened to steer him towards the baths after gesturing to Melaina to follow them. "To have a creature like that sweating over a fire instead of dressed like a queen. You might want to rethink that, my friend."

* * *

Eudorus hasn't had many unguarded moments. Hmm...

OK, Agamemnon didn't show up in this chapter either. sigh I start writing these characters and the pages start piling up because things keep coming off the cuff and that whole "detail" thing takes up space. LOL

This fic is turning out to be a weird casserole of myth and movie ― I'm not being consistent with either one, and I'm trying to make sure there's no plot holes or conflicts. If you spot one, please let me know! _The Iliad_ had Achilles commanding five captains (all named here), none of who died in the book, so I'm bringing them into the story. And even though the movie had Agamemnon die, I just couldn't let that happen! (It was so wrong and was the only thing that annoyed me in the movie ― apart from the soundtrack, that is.) I hope that choice doesn't seem too far-fetched. I thought that Agamemnon would have likely turned a near-death experience into a propaganda victory.

Thank you for the reviews! I've answered you all individually, if I can, and I hope this chapter has been as good as the past ones. I'm having fun writing for the first time in a long while (i.e., years). It's been a great year-end treat! I guess I have Saffron Burrows and Vincent Regan to thank for it. They're both very striking-looking people and make the goings-on here easy to imagine.

I'll stop rambling now! Please review!


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Kallisto's foot and spoon landed with more than a few answering yelps of protest in the next hours. If the cantankerous woman had ever kept a rein on her prickly nature, she let it slip completely. The kitchen quickly descended into the hellish kingdom of a loud, implacable tyrant. Before, Andromache would have assumed Kallisto was only asserting her innate desire to browbeat and dominate. But after having much occasion to talk to and learn more about her, Andromache knew that she was only thinking of one person and one result: Eudorus and the honor a successful feast would bring up on him. A happy, generous Agamemnon meant that Eudorus would hopefully be spared any cruel whimsy.

"Melaina, you're worthless!" Kallisto snarled. "You pluck those birds any worse and we'll all be able to pick our teeth with the quills. All you're good at is being a bath house whore!"

Andromache placed a calming hand on Kallisto's arm but before she could speak, Melaina hurled the half-nude chicken at their heads. They both dodged the missile, but it splashed into the pot over the hearth, sending Iasemi back on her heels with a shriek as she tried to avoid being scalded.

Andromache shot out her other arm to hold Iasemi back when the girl made to lunge forward in retaliation.

"Enough!" Andromache said firmly, not caring if Kallisto took offense at being ordered about. "This kitchen has me yearning for the old days of war again." There were some titters from around the sweltering room, but Andromache answered them with a glare that she meant it. Her head was threatening to split and she had been unable to escape this inferno for much of the day.

"If there is even one more cross word spoken here," she went on, "I will leave you all to kill one another." She shook Kallisto gently. "Come. Melaina is doing her work well, but if you're displeased, we can set her to doing something else."

Kallisto gave the hyperventilating object of her wrath a final withering glare and took up a pair of tongs, fished out the chicken, and slapped it down in front of Melaina. "I would like to see that fully plucked, my child," she said, the words honeyed and slow. "Do it, and we need not see each other for the rest of the night."

Andromache watched Melaina consider the carcass, rebellion still simmering in the set of her jaw. Finally, she grabbed it and began to resume the task with exaggerated care.

The room seemed to deflate with a common sigh of relief. Andromache brought a hand to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut, willing the pain away.

"Go rest," Kallisto said. Her voice had regained some calm and composure. "The food is nearly done and the men will be gathering at table soon. I can direct the girls for awhile."

Andromache nodded weakly and went to the corner to gather Astyanax, who had been rendered mute in utter bewilderment at the outburst. When she passed Iasemi, the girl gestured if she was wanted, but Andromache answered with a shake of her head. With visible reluctance, Iasemi returned her attention to the stew pot.

"At last!" Andromache muttered when the door closed behind her. Upon feeling the cool evening air caressing her face, she let out a long sigh and looked around the yard with an odd sense of indecision. So much had been foisted on her in a short time that her mind had become little more than an endless round of scurrying after this and chasing after that. Faced with time that was hers and hers alone, however brief, she was unsure what she should do.

Her parched throat soon demanded attention and she made straightway for the well. She set Astyanax on the ground and peered into the drinking bucket. The water was dusty and tepid-looking, causing her to wrinkle her nose in disgust. Rather than waste it completely by tossing it all onto the ground, she took the rag she had stuffed in her belt, soaked it, and wiped Astyanax's face, hands and feet.

"There, my little hero," she said, straightening. "You're quite presentable now."

She quickly drew another bucket and drank deeply from it before bathing her face and neck. Now refreshed, she picked up her son more easily and looked around her, wondering where was the best place to find continued peace. The women's quarters would be a tangle of limbs, clothes and tongues as the gathered concubines and other slaves of the assembled Myrmidons finished readying themselves for the feast. Hector had told her of the dancing girls at Menelaus' truce dinner and the ribald antics that followed. She suspected this evening would vary little from that, at least in terms of entertainment. No other evening could rival that ill-fated one.

She worried her lower lip with her teeth. Agamemnon had already come, amidst a display of wealth and might that Andromache had witnessed from afar as a shrewd balance between returning conqueror and compassionate sovereign. She had only known of him what Helen chose to divulge and what she had seen of his ostentatious ship from the walls of Troy. Her vigils on those walls had been long and sometimes lonely, but no matter whether Hector had joined her or not, her eyes had always lingered on the ship with Mycenae's sails and the capacious tent sprawled over its hull. It had been a palace-in-waiting, biding its time until Troy fell.

She wanted to see this king closely, no longer content to always be kept at a distance. A peer into the dining hall would have to suffice, for now. She looked at Astyanax, almost in a bid for his permission to continue. His eyes reflected a wariness that she decided must be apprehension at the fading daylight, but she briefly wondered if they were not conveying something else.

"If the gods are speaking through you, little one, I hope to eventually know it before too late," she said. "Let's not bother with any king. Would you rather I find a peaceful corner to hide in for the night?"

She started at the sound of feet crunching the sand and pebbles in the yard. Looking up she saw two figures, one slight and slender in white, the other taller and broader and garbed in a robe fit for greeting a king.

"Nephele," Iasemi said, "I'm here to take Phaedrus for the night."

Andromache's arms clenched tighter around Astyanax. "Why? What is wrong?"

"Nothing. The master wishes for us to accompany him first." She inclined her head towards Eudorus, the girl's expression as nervous and confused as Andromache felt her own was.

"Has the kitchen gone over to complete chaos?"

"Nothing of the kind," Eudorus said, as Iasemi took Astyanax from Andromache's numb embrace. He advanced towards her and gently took hold of her arm above the elbow.

Her first instinct was to struggle, and she did so, gently trying to wrench herself out of his grip. His fingers only tightened and when he began to walk, she fell into step beside him. Iasemi walked behind.

"What is this?" she demanded.

"What you're wearing is unsuitable. We need to change that."

Her steps faltered and she hastened to right herself. "Unsuitable? For what?"

He said nothing more, led them towards what Andromache recognized as the informal treasury, a windowless vault attached to the main quarters where the spoils of war had been collected and stored. A waiting slave unbolted the door, allowing the still brilliant dusk to infiltrate the room. Light glinted off gold, bronze, and fine polished wood. Shields hung from the walls and caskets were stacked, one on top of the other, holding trinkets and vast numbers of valuables.

"What is this?" she asked again, less angry now. "Why have you brought me here?"

Again, Eudorus did not speak. His hand fell from her arm and he entered the room with a gesture for the two women to follow him. They did so, although hesitantly, and watched him open one of the larger chests. When he withdrew a robe of indigo silk and shimmering white gossamer, Andromache tensed. Her alarm heightened when he retrieved a chiton of wool bleached a blinding white and held them out to her.

"I wish you to wear these," he said. "For tonight."

"What has occasioned this?" she asked, speaking more bravely than she felt. "I saw Hyrtius inspecting me today like one would a cow at market. Am I to be another gift?" She heard Iasemi gasp softly.

"No, you need have no fear of that," he said. "I wish you to sit at the table. By my side."

Iasemi gasped again, only louder.

"That is for a queen or consort," Andromache said, confused, "and I am neither. If anyone should be present, it is Klytemnestra."

"Who isn't here, and I have no wife. So it falls to you. I command it."

Andromache heard the growing impatience in his voice. The feast was due to start or had already begun. Delays were not welcome. Eudorus had abandoned his duty as host, if only briefly, to find her for his unexpected request. If he desired it or thought it necessary, then so be it. Already she was weighing the advantages of sitting across from Agamemnon against its dangers and, even if she had the power to refuse, she would not do so.

"Very well. I will go to my quarters and dress."

"There is no time," he said. "Your girl will dress you here and then you must come straightway to the hall." He opened one of the smaller caskets and scooped up a handful of rings, jeweled pins and necklaces. "Wear of these what you will, but not overmuch to goad Agamemnon's greed. Understand?"

When Andromache nodded mutely, Eudorus appeared satisfied and made to move past her, but he paused and brought a hand to her cheek. He smiled, albeit slightly, and caught her lips in a kiss that Andromache sensed was equal parts passion and encouragement. The fingers that caressed her face were trembling, a slight shake in the fingertips that conveyed a shared apprehension of the night to come.

Andromache did not pull away as she had done in the bath, did not cry, did not think on happier days with a better man. Tonight was tonight; she would do what she was asked and take of it what she could. She had to think in those terms, now and forever more, until she had achieved both freedom and her son's throne. It was a vow she had made today and she would adhere to it with her last breath.

The kiss ended and, with a final, lingering look, he hurried past a gaping Iasemi and left the treasury.

"What did I just see?" Iasemi asked, visibly dazed.

Andromache ran the back of her hand over her mouth. "A bargain. I give him the presence of a wife and I am able to finally see Agamemnon, although he thinks that his favor is giving me fine clothes to wear, if only for one night."

Iasemi watched her mistress's gesture with obvious sadness. "He is a good man," she said. "It need not be so hateful to you."

Andromache's eyes alit in surprise. "Well, my little virgin, you suddenly have much to say on the subject! You can take my place when the time comes! I'll not fight you for it."

Iasemi accepted the rebuke with only mild contrition. "People who have been slaves their whole lives have other ideas of what makes a good or bad situation," she said, setting Astyanax down on the floor and pulling the door shut enough to secure privacy from the slave who waited outside, but not to eliminate all daylight.

"We can discuss this later, if you're insistent about it," Andromache said, short and impatient. "Obviously you have a strong opinion on the matter."

Iasemi took the clothes that Andromache held out to her and she looked down at them thoughtfully. "Aren't you scared?" she asked. "You must be. You have never spoken like that to me before."

"You've never provoked me so before," Andromache replied, clasping her hands. "But yes, I'm suddenly very terrified. When he asked me, I saw little but how fine it could all go, but now… It could all go so wrong, so terribly wrong." As if to turn her mind away from it, she hastily untied her belt and drew her shapeless gown over her head.

Iasemi took it and tossed it to the side. With care, she helped Andromache pull on the chiton. She saw, and Andromache felt, that it was a fine garment, woven, cut, and sewn with care and an eye towards emphasizing whatever natural curves its wearer possessed.

"Beautiful," Iasemi said. "I've seen you wear something like this so many times before."

"The robe, Iasemi!" Andromache said, snapping her fingers. "Hurry. My courage is up and I want to get to the hall before it leaves me again. I have a feeling that it will be ebbing and flowing all night. The heavens protect me, guard my tongue and stiffen my spine."

This done, Iasemi went to the casket of jewelry Eudorus had opened and grabbed earrings, several bracelets, and rings.

"Necklace!" Andromache reminded her, and they got mutually frustrated at one that was intent on tangling with an amulet's leather cord. Iasemi grabbed a fistful of gold in hopes of finding something else beneath and Andromache stared at the layer of treasure that had been revealed.

"My mother's comb," she whispered, withdrawing it. "I saw it on the ship the day he spared my son, but I never thought I would actually hold it again." Her eyes glittered with only a few threatening tears. "If this does not guard me tonight in Agamemnon's presence, then the gods' intentions could not be more clear."

Iasemi took it and pinned up several locks of hair, arranging them to mask the short hair and scar on the site of the wound incurred by Tryphena. She took a few steps backward, all the small room would allow her, and looked at her mistress from head to toe.

A grin was her only indication of approval. Andromache swooped down on Astyanax like a bird of paradise and kissed his head and cheeks fervently. "I will be back, little one. Give Iasemi no trouble tonight."

With that, she left. Iasemi stood in the doorway and watched her mistress hurry in the direction of the hall. Andromache's sandals were not slapping against polished stone and she was not going to soon be seated next to Prince Hector, but Iasemi had seen her rush off garbed in such finery before, late to a dinner or some other formal event, her entire body a mixture of nervousness and anticipation at the coming test of ceremonies and courtesies.

She would take these familiar memories and hope they would be increased. She had seen both Eudorus' eyes and manners around her mistress; she had also seen Andromache's return to some traits of old. Today she had seen a princess of Troy again, full of purpose and a proud acceptance of things as they were ― but only as a means of using it as solid ground to leap to the next battleground.

She would not tell her mistress that oftentimes she had witnessed glimpses of Prince Hector in the actions and expressions of their current lord. As kind a mistress as Andromache was, Iasemi was not confident that such an observation would pass without a slap to her cheek. She well knew it would be greeted as blasphemy to say such a thing.

So she would say nothing. But, gods willing, Andromache would soon see it with her own eyes and be unafraid. Of both him and herself.

* * *

Thanks for reviewing, everyone!

I had to split the chapter up – it was getting too long. Sorry that this part is the shorter one. The next chapter starts with the feast for Agamemnon, Andromache trying not to commit murder, and a scene with Eudorus and Andromache. Stay tuned.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

"Ah, you heeded my advice, I see!" Hyrtius exclaimed with a laugh and a meaningful nod of his head at Eudorus. "Did I not say that she was suited to finer things?"

Andromache glanced quickly at Agamemnon's emissary as she skirted the long table. A questioning look at Eudorus was answered by a quick sweep of his hand at the chair on his right. She made her way toward it but nearly collided with a girl carrying two pitchers of wine who gasped upon seeing her.

"Just for the night," Andromache told her. "Tell the other women. They will be sure to have a laugh at my expense."

"Jealous, more like!" the girl breathed, her eyes sweeping the vibrant robe with covetous amazement.

Andromache settled herself in the chair and scanned the faces around her. She saw all of the Myrmidons and did not flinch when Tydeus regarded her with obvious distrust before turning his attention back to his wine cup.

"I only know King Agamemnon's face from a distance," she said, still searching the faces at the table. "Is he not here?" Her voice was light, somewhat breathless from her fast walk, and she found herself immediately slipping into the guise of hostess. _Blessings to the gods,_ she thought. _They have indeed taken pity on me tonight._

Eudorus clasped her hand and squeezed it gently. "Not yet, but that does not matter."

"I―I think you have taken too much wine already, my lord!" she replied, not liking the feel of her palm becoming damp so quickly. "You are quite merry."

Hyrtius, who sat opposite her, leaned forward and his beetling brows furrowed in concentration. Andromache saw that his eyes were already reddened and his nose had acquired a flush. "Eudorus is as sober as a priest, my beauty," he said. "They say all women get prettier with each cup. If that's so, by the end of the night I'll be telling Ares he had best forget Aphrodite and come here on his fastest horse to get you."

Andromache laughed. "Never have I heard such blunt flattery before, good Hyrtius. Let me be bold and demand more of it."

A girl came by with a pitcher and topped Hyrtius' cup with more of the dark, sweet wine that Andromache suspected had been flowing for some time. He held it up in a toast. "Your ears shall ring of nothing else this night!" With gusto, he swallowed half of it and looked around in annoyed distress.

"Has your king decided to leave for Mycenae so soon?" Eudorus asked.

Hyrtius waved the comment away with a grunt. "Just like the sun, King Agamemnon wants to be the only object of brilliance. He will come when everyone is seated and he can tower over all our heads."

Andromache saw Eudorus' lips quirked in amused thought. "He won Troy through clever means," he said. "It's a victory that no one else will ever boast of. Odysseus is not here to claim the glory, but Agamemnon can do that ably."

Hyrtius grunted again. "That he can."

"I hear that your lord king suffered what many thought was a mortal blow," Andromache said, trying not to sound too eager for information, "but that he was spared. I do hope he will tell that story when he comes."

"Ha! He will. It's become one of his favorites. He's all but engraved it on his front door."

She smiled and nodded in a show of patience, but was soon distracted by Eudorus signaling her to lean in closely to him. "You are doing well. Better than I had hoped."

"Large dinners are not new to me, my lord," she said with a steady smile, twisting away from the discomfiting sensation of his warm breath on her neck.

The din in the hall quickly fell to the wayside and most of those gathered turned towards the large door. Andromache followed the lead of others and rose to her feet, grateful that her unnatural height allowed her to see where shorter women would have been rendered blind.

So this was Agamemnon. His black and iron-grey hair was fashioned in long, flowing ringlets, as was his beard. His broad body was covered in an expensive robe and he wore glittering gold about his head, chest, and hands. _Eudorus told me not to wear too much, _Andromache thought, _but even he could not have imagined that Agamemnon would put on such an amount. I could triple or quadruple what I'm wearing and still look like a pauper._

He advanced, his bright, calculating eyes surveying all points of the room, tallying up faces and bodies and all valuables that were on them with the expertise of a miser's clerk. Although his expression was jovial, she suspected that underneath it was a rigid control and self-possession. Even when he had taken respite from the sack of her city to lay hands upon Briseis, she doubted that it was an impulse. Everything was planned; nothing done without connivance. The only thing that had made him act like a mindless, wounded animal had been Menelaus' death. He had attacked the city with abandon and been routed by Hector's iron command of his forces. But Menelaus was dead and she wondered if the Mycenaean king had another vulnerable, unarmored spot. If Hyrtius' comment about the fractious royal family was any indication, Agamemnon had few kinsmen he would hold so dearly as his dead brother.

Andromache was grateful that her hands could disappear into her sleeves. She took advantage of this now, curling her fingers tightly into her palms, and watched him avidly as he made his way towards their long table. She felt the urge to look at Eudorus, read his features if she could. But such a movement would make her conspicuous.

Agamemnon stopped before Eudorus, hands resting on his breast, the satisfied, jovial smile still on his wide mouth. "Ah, my good Myrmidon, you do set a fine table and bring excellent company. This will be a night of pleasure and new friendships." He sat down beside Hyrtius, opposite Eudorus. Everyone returned to their seat and Eudorus clapped for the food to be brought in.

Andromache took the opportunity to watch Agamemnon while his attention was diverted towards the platters of whole pigs, lambs, birds, sides of beef, and all the food she had helped prepare only a short while ago. Her stomach flipped at the sight of it, but if she was to drink wine, she needed to force something down.

The Mycenaean king was in an obviously expansive mood. He clapped his hands like a child receiving a surprise when a piglet prepared especially for him was set before him.

"Excellent! Excellent!" he laughed.

The rest of the table was given two platters of meat, loaves of bread, and bowls of fruit and vegetables from the fields. Andromache thought this feast would have happened anyway, to celebrate the harvest. Eudorus' attention to the fields had seen a bountiful outcome. Starvation would certainly not be a concern.

Andromache was in the process of slicing the warm bread when Agamemnon said, "Forgive me, Eudorus. I did not greet your wife." He bowed his head in Andromache's direction.

Hyrtius' brows beetled in confusion. "My lord, I have spoken to you of this woman before. She is not―"

Agamemnon waved him off in high-spirited annoyance. "Of course, you did, but you've just ruined my subtle attempt to introduce a proposition to our unfettered host. Go drink, Hyrtius. There's my man."

"I am not in the market for a wife yet," Eudorus said bluntly. "My land here ― Achilles' gift to me ― is what consumes my interest. Once I have made a lasting success of it, then perhaps."

"I have two daughters," Agamemnon persisted. "Both young with many years of childbearing ahead of them. Elektra is the one I would hate to part with most, but she has got a fire about her that any man would want. I guarantee that you will have strong sons aplenty on either of them."

When he pointed at Eudorus and grinned, Andromache fought the urge to turn away in disgust. This talk of selling daughters as if they were cattle! She thought he looked exactly like a smooth-tongued merchant trying to pawn off faulty goods to an ignorant farmer.

"I've never been one to favor little girls, Agamemnon," Eudorus said. "I'd rather let them finish playing with dolls and dreaming of boys first." He gave the Mycenaean a regretful smile of refusal and looked over at Andromache.

Agamemnon's eyes followed Eudorus' and he straightened to regard her with greater interest. "Woman," he said, "who are you and what is your family? Better than a daughter of the house of Atreus?" The question was an open challenge.

Andromache swallowed her mouthful of bread and drank some wine, using it to bide her time to reply. "I was wife to a merchant who did much business in the north with Troy, even the royal palace," she said. "My father was also in trade, though on a smaller scale."

"Your manners are better than I would expect from a peddler's wife."

Andromache took a grape and popped it into her mouth, her gaze steady. "I was no stranger to Priam's palace. I went with my husband once or twice and observed everything and imitated the behavior I saw of the royal family. Some people thought I put on airs above my station, but others did not. That is the way of it, I suppose."

Agamemnon ran a greasy finger over his lip in thought. Eudorus laughed. "I see that suspicion in your eyes again. Are you going to go through all my slaves in that quest of yours? None of them are here. They are lost, I'm sorry to say."

"My lord? Who are these unfortunate people?"

"He is angry that he was unable to capture or kill all of Priam's house," Eudorus explained. "Some escaped."

The feigned look of surprise came easily. "Oh? When you encountered us on the shore, my lord, we were barely aware that Troy had fallen. Our town was sacked earlier and we had been wandering for some days."

Agamemnon's elated mood had faded and he regarded his piglet with a dour air. "Your bastard commander killed Hector, but that sniveling pretty-boy Paris and my brother's whore slipped out of the city. Hector's wife and son, as well. I would have given half my treasure to throw the little spawn from the city walls and tame Hector's mare as he never could."

Andromache felt her already unsteady stomach violently spasm with revulsion. Yet she did not give herself over to her hate or fears. "I'm certain she would regret the honor if she knew of it," she said tightly. "You will forgive me if I hope very few of my women sisters find themselves captives of another. The war with Troy affected so many lives, including those who had never heard of Helen of Sparta and cared not what she looked like."

"Would that the matter of Troy's wealth had been settled far more amicably," Agamemnon lamented with an affected sigh. "It could have ended well for all."

"Troy could have handed over their treasury, you mean. Or given up its sovereign rights."

Agamemnon scowled. "Eudorus, I come here to eat, drink and forget I am a married man. Your slave woman has a mannish tongue and if I were drunk, I should think it was Klytemnestra sniping at me."

Eudorus shot Andromache a warning glance but he did not dismiss her. Nor did his expression look particularly cross.

Andromache's eyes fixed upon Agamemnon's neck, on a wound still red and angry. She yearned to plunge another dagger into it, but, unlike Briseis, she would not fail to kill him. "I hear you suffered an injury during the burning of the city," she said smoothly, grasping at anything to keep her from giving in to murder. "Hyrtius says it is quite a tale. I should like to hear it."

"Ah, now that is a story," Agamemnon replied, brightening a little at what was apparently a welcome change of topic. "I will try to make it more palatable for both you and good Eudorus. I'm afraid that Achilles suffers somewhat in my telling of it."

"Not everyone admired him," Eudorus said. "We're all well aware of that."

Agamemnon chuckled. "That is why I like you, Eudorus. You can hear all manner of things and not fly into a sullen rage. Achilles was as quick to take insult as any woman, whereas you have quite a level head. It's been a relief to see that. He was useful to me, in his own way. And I will admit that when I was revived as Troy still burned and saw him dead on the ground, my heart cried a little." His thick fingers went to his chest and twisted the stiff fabric in a gesture of mourning. He looked over at Andromache from under slack, sad brows.

"Your grief overwhelms me," she replied dryly.

"As it should," Agamemnon said, aware that no one was fooled. "But to my story. It was only by the grace and love of the gods that I am here today. Troy had been set aflame and my brother's death was being avenged. My blood was up and I saw a pretty vision kneeling before a statue of Apollo, praying for deliverance of her city. What wonderful chance that Achilles' priestess should be right in my path after she had been plucked out of my grasp far too early. Hera had been by my side throughout the war. I could feel her favor during my triumphs and she was striding beside me as I went through the city, urging my men to its destruction."

Andromache looked at the faces of the assembled Myrmidons. Some were bored, while others were attentive with looks of regret that they had been sent away by Achilles before the sacking could commence. What would have happened to Troy if Myrmidon blood lust had been added to it? In her nightmares, she could still hear the cries and screams of men struck down and women brutalized as she had fled to the escape tunnel. She ventured a quick glance at Eudorus, who was patiently listening to Agamemnon spinning his tale for perhaps the second time that day, and wondered: _Had Achilles not sent you away, who would you have killed? The fruit peddler I saw cut down by a dozen swords as I ducked into a dark alley? Would you have raped the dyer's wife I saw dragged out into the street, screaming the wail of the doomed as her body was invaded and ripped? Why did Achilles send you away if killing had been what you all lived for, if Troy's fall had been the point of coming to our shores?_

She found herself forming the words to ask him this, so wrapped in her own thoughts had she become, but Agamemnon's insistent recitation of his own glory and immortal favor intruded. She closed her ears to her own musings and opened them to the Mycenaean braggart.

"…cared not that she would have been protected! The ungrateful bitch stabs me in the gullet like a sheep! Imagine! Ah, but Hera turned the blade, ever so slightly, and closed my eyes in healing, painless sleep until I was revived― Why, you look disappointed."

Andromache heard the suspicious, insinuating tone and answered him with a smile and a tilt of her head in mild puzzlement. "Not at all. I'm only vexed that Hera's favor should have lapsed for the dagger to have struck you at all. Most curious."

Agamemnon smothered a belch and glowered at her until he recovered from the gastric upset.

"You will grant me," she added, "that it is akin to a man losing his house to Zeus' fire from the sky but thanking him for sparing his life?" She clasped her hands primly, as though innocently entreating a tutor to answer a deliberately complex question put forth by a stubborn student.

Agamemnon's dark glower deepened and he turned to Eudorus. "Elektra would make a finer consort by your side. She knows better than to blaspheme the gods."

Eudorus placed a heavy hand over Andromache's, a clear warning to her to speak no further. "All women can be trying," he offered with an amused sigh. "I will make amends. Klytemnestra shall have two robes, the second more rare than the first, and my apologies for any insults you have suffered here in my house."

"I'll decide later if that is sincerely meant," Agamemnon said, grimacing. "This is putting me off a fine table! Let's have no more of it!"

The tenor of the room returned to the din of eating and drinking, but Andromache heard a distinct change in terms of cheer. She bit the inside of her cheek in fear that she had provoked Agamemnon once too often. _I'll remain silent for the rest of the evening and hope he sees contrition, even if there is none._

She ventured to look around the room and she could see new pairs of eyes upon her. If she had gone unnoticed before, either as slave or earlier in the evening as Eudorus' chosen to sit beside him, that anonymity was gone. She saw shock, concern, impressed interest, calculation, and envy in the faces of slave, Myrmidons and Mycenaeans alike.

_You fool_, she thought. _There may be no going back now. I need to preserve myself after this. I need to preserve my son with what little power exists here. I know what I must do. _

* * *

The feast finally ended after a majority of those dining had either fallen where they sat or had staggered off to quarters for further indulgence with their loves of the evening. Agamemnon had retired, Hyrtius close on his heels in visible anxiety at the twists and turns the night had taken.

Eudorus rose and surveyed the destruction before him. Wine dripped off tables, mingling with food on the floor, even a discarded tunic or two. One couple lay sated in the corner of the room while another staggered out through the door into the night. A brief burst of song trailed in their wake, followed by a raucous laugh.

"I will change and set to work immediately, my lord," Andromache said wearily, her mind nearly unable to absorb the amount of labor that lay ahead.

"No, that is for others to do tonight," he said, holding out his hand in a bid for her to rise. "Come with me."

"I―I really should see to Kallisto and help her. She's had a trying night. It began with Melaina and―"

"I saw to that and Kallisto's foul mood immediately passed," he said. "Melaina will no longer trouble her."

Andromache's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"Hyrtius has acquired a new diversion and he can take her back to Mycenae with him. It is only fair that I give him something for his friendship. He is to be thanked for this being the…success it was." His eyes swept the room again and he sighed in tired satisfaction.

Andromache took his hand and stood, unable to prevent a smile coming to her lips. "I shall not miss her," she said honestly.

"I despise jealousy and she had more in her than an Egyptian harem. I want none of that here, beginning tonight."

Andromache felt her smile freeze on her lips, and she nodded in stiff uncertainty. They walked over the scattered bodies towards the open door. A soft breeze wafted through it, ridding her nostrils of the gluttonous musk of sweat, wine and rich food. Until then, she hadn't realized how strong it had been.

The moon was full and of such luminous silver that Andromache was unsure she had ever possessed anything to rival it. It bathed her so fully she could feel it, and she had a fleeting thought of the goddess who embodied it, the goddess who had seen fit to visit her that night along the Scamander as Troy burned. A night that seemed an eternity ago. A night so at odds from this night, right now.

She looked over her shoulder at the devastated room as they walked out into the night. "What an insulting, vile king," she muttered. The words were inadequate to express the true depth of her loathing, but the pressure that had built within her demanded some release. The moon's light almost begged her for it so that it could shine down upon a serene land.

Eudorus let out a long sigh that quietly mirrored her own outburst. "If this is what it means to entertain a king, then I hope I never have to do it again. A pity he may not return home by sea. I should like to see him laying at the bottom of it."

Andromache looked over at him quickly. "You were very calm and confident," she said, surprised. "I would not have imagined you were hating it so much."

"He drove my commander into madness and rage through his selfish actions and tricks. I have to despise him for it. My honor and loyalty to Achilles runs deeper than it can for any king." He shrugged. "But I will smile and do what he asks of me. Within reason, of course. So far he has not been too demanding." He stopped Andromache with a hand on her wrist, gently directing her to turn so the moonlight shone full on her face. "I know I commanded you to come, Nephele," he said, "but I felt…relief when you appeared. I was never unaware of you beside me, and if I was calm, it was because you made me so."

"My husband often told me that," she said, the words coming unbidden to her lips, slipping past the lump in her throat that had formed upon the remembrance of she and Hector strolling back to their quarters after a particularly trying evening among boorish emissaries and priests.

_Damn this moonlight_, she thought. _It makes everything so open, so unprotected_. _It's making him say strange things. Making me say things I shouldn't._ She stared intently at the moon and wondered if a certain goddess was watching her now and what immortal mischief might be brewing.

"If he was a rich and influential man, then it was your success as well," he said. "Rivals must have thought twice about crossing him."

"How so?" she asked, confused. "You seem to be giving me more praise than I warrant. I nearly started a petulant royal reprisal in there tonight with my mindless tongue."

"You said everything that I could not, but wanted to. You said it from the safe ground of a woman. He can dismiss it if he likes, but I could plainly see that it pricked his pride. I've seen him after Achilles provoked him into a fury, yet the sight of him tonight was one of the most satisfying I have ever experienced."

Andromache was startled to see him look at her with an expression she had seen before, but on the face of another. Happiness. Newly found pride. Pride in her.

"A real change has come over you, my lord," Andromache said quickly, "and it cannot be just the wine or my rash words tonight. Treating with Agamemnon has done something."

"Perhaps, but it is simpler than that. Hyrtius saw you in Klytemnestra's robe and said you should be dressed like a queen rather than kitchen maid. I had to oblige him, and I was curious myself."

Andromache's gaze went to the ground. "I saw you talking, but did not know the subject. I did suspect that it was about me in some way."

Eudorus fingered the edge of one of her long sleeves. "The robe for Klytemnestra is beautiful, but there was something better hidden away, and I wanted you to wear it."

"And the second robe you promised Agamemnon?" she asked. "It must be this one."

He shook his head. "There is yet another. This is yours. I want to see you in it again and again."

Andromache tugged the edges of the robe around her, not in a show of possession or guarding against the chill of the night air, but in a feeble attempt at protection. Yet it did nothing to alleviate the feeling of vulnerability. "My lord―"

"Lay with me tonight."

She did not move, nearly forgot to breathe. "If my lord wills it," she whispered, her eyes still fixed upon the ground.

"And what is _your_will?"

His fingers cupped her chin, but it was not the insistent pinch from the day in the bath, not the gesture of a master. His touch was gentle, almost like that of a tentative lover. And his eyes…

Andromache saw everything in them, eyes as pale as the moon above them and a reflection of all that it was. She could sense purifying warmth, biting cold, hope, sadness, plenty, want, chastity, desire. Everything she had ever thought of while staring at it from her balcony in Thebe as a child and Troy as a woman now swarmed about her. For long weeks and months, she had not wanted to see what lay in his eyes in this moment, told herself it would be frightening, horrible, destructive. But it was none of those things.

What she saw was an unspoken plea that she would assent, and a promise that she would not regret it.

She let go of the halves of her robe that she had held tightly around her like armor. "My will?" she asked. "Yes."

Her lips were caught in a kiss so commanding and sudden that she had difficulty regaining her bearings. Strong arms wrapped around her, and she was drawn against a body that communicated its need more clearly than words.

Earlier in the night, she had thought of this as preservation, protection for her and Astyanax. She still thought of that now, none of its importance forgotten, but it did not color her response. With genuine, impulsive desire, she slid her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss.

When she felt the ground disappear beneath her feet and Eudorus cradling her in his arms, she closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder, allowing the rock and sway of his stride to lull her into a sleepless dream of yesteryear.

* * *

Happy New Year, everybody! My resolution? To finish or nearly finish this story! I'd rather do that than diet. 


	21. Chapter 21

Warning: I suppose a few sentences in this chapter could be called explicit, although it's not in the context of a straight sex scene. (I don't write porn – not that I don't want to, but because I can't! I suck at it, frankly.) Anyway, if you don't like anything beyond chaste kisses, consider yourself warned. But it's pretty tame.

I don't normally beg for feedback, but if I might request a word or two? This chapter was very hard to write and I'm still not overly pleased with it. I don't know if it's too fluffy, the emotional arc too sudden and unbelievable (although it covers nine months' time), the resolution too pat, or what. Maybe it's because I'm my own worst critic. All opinions are welcome and encouraged.

**Chapter 21**

At the end of six days, Agamemnon departed, his party of Mycenaeans and vassal subjects wending their way down the road out of Phthia. Andromache nearly sang with joy as she watched them disappear into the distance.

She did, however, feel a pang of loss at seeing Hyrtius leave. Eudorus had requested her presence beside him twice more at table, and the emissary had never failed to compliment her in profuse, artful terms that only wine can create. It was one of the amusing remembrances she had of similar dinners in Priam's palace and she did not hesitate to laugh and encourage him to make his praise more ornate and ridiculous. It also gave her some malicious pleasure to see Agamemnon's appetite spoiled as he was reminded it was she, and not one of his daughters, who sat beside his host. She was careful not to overstep, however, and diplomatically put an end to Hyrtius' game when she saw Agamemnon's brow darkening with annoyance.

Both she and Iasemi had acknowledged there was a strangely strategic advantage in a measure of audacity, and so while neither sought to cross paths with Agamemnon, neither did they run and hide at his approach. Astyanax, however, remained well out of sight and his absence did not provoke comment. Slave children were not worthy of mention anyway, but were he visible, Andromache didn't trust to the charm of children to override any brief glimpse of Hector Agamemnon might see in her son's face. He had seen her husband closely, looked into his eyes while spitting hateful words. Hector's was a face Agamemnon would always remember. While she thought Astyanax's features favored neither she nor Hector, but more a blending of the two, she was leaving nothing to chance. During the day, he played in the kitchens. At night, he was rendered into Iasemi's care until the following dawn when she would return from Eudorus' chamber.

Although her days had been filled with the constant work of feeding the monstrous and demanding appetites of the gathered Myrmidons and Mycenaeans, in a way she was grateful for the ceaseless rush in the kitchens because it had given Kallisto little opportunity to comment on her master's new choice. Even so, Andromache felt fairly certain that Kallisto's opinion was not too dire, given the small number of suspicious glances and appraising stares by the old woman. She took comfort in that and kept her mind on heeding Kallisto's orders while dispensing some of her own.

The other women exhibited various reactions in the days following Andromache's first daybreak emergence from Eudorus' room. She knew that it would not go unnoticed for long, if at all. As she expected, many eyes turned towards her that first morning as soon as she entered the kitchen, as if to mark the difference in her from one day to the next.

"Do they think I have grown a second head?" she demanded of Iasemi in a secluded corner, only to be startled when the girl smiled in reply.

"Many seem to think you were going to protect your virtue eternally," she said. "I think they are all quite surprised you aren't wailing and tearing your hair in grief."

"And what of you?" Andromache demanded in wonder. "You seem quite cheerful about it."

Iasemi quickly smothered her unashamedly wide grin, transforming it into something more chastely somber.

"You naughty girl!" Andromache whispered. "You are as awful as the others. Want details, do you?"

"Of course not," was the prim reply. "I'm only happy that it hasn't cast you into a gloomy temper." She looked up at Andromache with serious, earnest eyes. "I am truly glad."

"It did bother me, and it does. Know that, my girl. How could it not? But there are worse things than sharing his bed." She paused, her forehead creasing in puzzled thought. "Odd. He said that exact same thing a while ago and at the time I wouldn't believe him."

"Will I be caring for the baby tonight as well?"

Andromache looked at her askance, immediately sensing that Iasemi was prying in her usual innocent way. "I will not know until it happens, but I doubt this will continue. I should like to not have to endure any petty reprisals from the more vindictive women. None of his other women has lasted long. He has a very uneven appetite, but you have probably noticed the traits of each affair more than I have."

Iasemi had not said a word, but her eyes verified that everything had been noted and her mistress's turn would be similarly scrutinized.

Andromache soon paid little heed to Iasemi's nosey pursuits. Eudorus did ask for her the next night, and the night after that. When she had spoken those difficult words that first night and agreed to share his bed, she had been shocked to have them come so easily to her lips, although she had only acquiesced to secure both her and Astyanax's safety. But she decided to swallow her pride, ignore its browbeating persistence that to be dragged kicking and fighting was the only honorable option. Willingly she went to his bed, and willingly she stayed.

Even after Agamemnon left and routine was once again established in kitchen and field, after the pressing need for protection had passed, she continued to go when he called for her and her step gradually lightened as she trod that one path, night after night. Her authority in the kitchen protected her from the more vicious slurs and grumbles, and Kallisto kept her beside her, ensuring that the torments Tryphena and others had suffered would not be repeated.

Her prediction that this would be of short duration was proven wrong. The days lengthened into weeks, then months.

She watched the moon wax and wane as she lay beside him, marking the time with a mixture of disbelief and trepidation. The harvest ended and chilly winter settled in. She saw a rare snowfall and felt chill spring breezes whisk through the room, forcing her to burrow under the heavy blankets and hold herself against him for warmth. Then, the hot, stifling air of summer returned and she marked that she had been a slave for well over one full course of the seasons.

For nine of those many moons, it had only been she who looked through his window, felt the cold or warm air that came through it. Only she who heard his dreams and occasional nightmares. Only she who felt his lips, his hands, and received him as a woman does a man.

She had not expected fidelity; he had never indicated he was of any such singular mind in the past, considering that in the same amount of time he had lain solely with her, he had bedded several of the other women soon after first settling in the Phthian foothills. It was as if he had bided his time with a weighty decision, amusing himself with others whilst keeping his eye on her until he felt the moment to act had come. In the ensuing months and its attendant intimacy, she had concluded that it was exactly what he had done because that was who he was. Careful and cautious, yet persevering when he knew what he wanted.

And it was she that he wanted.

He was by no means a wretched lover. A bit rough and clumsy, perhaps; she blamed a soldier's innate lack of subtlety for that. She had only one other lover by which to compare him, of course, and there were enough similarities in grace, or lack thereof, to make the first months hauntingly yet reassuringly familiar. Even so, it was painful to reflect on it, to feel a caress from roughened hands that immediately summoned Hector's face behind her closed eyes. She had to bite her tongue to prevent that dangerous name from passing her lips in an unguarded moment, squeeze back the tears that threatened to spill.

Hector had initiated her into passion and its mysteries, had instilled in her a love and eagerness for it and to exult in sensation and desire. It was agony to have his part now assumed by another, but she eventually reconciled herself to the bittersweet pleasure she found in Eudorus' bed. It became necessary if she wanted to preserve her sanity. Denying, willing herself to feel nothing was one lie too many, one she knew would crush and twist her wits until they snapped.

What began as pragmatic surrender evolved as her body learned to enjoy his attentions and respond to him with only slight hesitation. She succumbed to this physical need but, even when she clamped her thighs greedily around his waist and tangled her fingers in his hair as he ground his hips against hers in like hunger, she convinced herself that honor had been left intact, for while she had given her body license to betray, her heart was kept firmly locked.

She guarded it jealously, even more so when she felt it threatened by a gesture of kindness from her Myrmidon captor. The thought of affection was absurd; the prospect of love impossible. She would not allow it.

And then, it happened. Slowly, almost like a creeping fog that one watches approach until suddenly it surrounds on all sides. She could not point to certain days, but only gesture to a vague span of time. In the absence of any specifics, she was left with the cumulative effect of waking up to find him watching her, feeling his breath pleasantly tickle her neck as he cradled her from behind, or hearing an endearment gasped against her lips amidst the tangled, guttural moans and breathless urgings of mutual lust.

Despite these frequent bouts under Aphrodite's more carnal spells, many nights consisted of nothing more than lying side-by-side with only the briefest of caresses exchanged. Her presence alone seemed sufficient to please him, and she desperately wanted to know why, yet was afraid of knowing, terrified that she already knew the answer. These different forces gathered until a brick was knocked loose from the wall she had erected around herself as Hector's faithful wife. The missing piece caused another to sag and tumble after it.

And so it went.

All she could do was either stare at the gaps in her defenses or try to rebuild them. But as she went about gathering the fallen bricks and assessing the work to be done, she often found herself looking out into the strange territory beyond and wondering if it was futile, if she even honestly desired to keep herself shut away any longer.

* * *

It was Astyanax's half-birthday, or what Andromache crudely figured was the midpoint between his first and second birthdays. She had tried to keep a tally of time, watching the moons and seasons and hoping that she was somewhat close to the mark. She wanted to make it as special for him as she could, so she had pilfered some honeyed fruit and a piece of dried meat for him to suck on. With goods in hand, she went in search of Iasemi, who had taken Astyanax out of the kitchen on Andromache's orders because the boy had turned a whimper into a relentless crying fit. 

"I think he misses you," Iasemi said. "I curl up around him at night, but he knows the difference between you and me."

So Andromache was determined to spend as much time as she could with him this day. There was an awful truth that could still make her voice catch or her eyes burn, a truth that she could banish only in her dreams: Hector would not be the one to play games with him, not be the one to give him his first wooden sword, or teach him how to be a soldier and, thus, a man. That would now to fall to others; a Myrmidon, perhaps even Tydeus, would be thrusting a practice sword and shield into her son's hands and ordering him about. And what would he fight for? Country? People? No. Treasure and bloody glory.

She had had such a dream of Hector playing with her son only last night, confessed it to Iasemi with barely-concealed tears.

She pushed aside these thoughts with frustration. This was supposed to be a happy day and she would make it so.

"Charis, where is Iasemi?" she asked the priestess, who was patiently untangling a skein of wool outside the weavers' hut.

"I saw her walk by only a little while ago," Charis replied, not looking up from her task. "She was carrying Phaedrus on her shoulders and they were both chattering like birds. He was making only slightly more sense than she was."

Andromache laughed. "He has his own language and seems to think that stopping will be fatal. Iasemi sometimes thinks she'll go mad when she has to listen to him for long."

Charis' expression turned serious, and Andromache immediately braced herself for unwelcome words. The woman had never relinquished her temple posture or manner, considered captivity a mere inconvenience and no excuse to descend into barbarism and forget one's breeding. Andromache loved her for it, although a few of the other women thought it was insufferably smug. Still, Charis chided and advised from the knowing, commanding position she had held in the past and others, Andromache included, were compelled to listen and heed for those very same reasons.

"You have separated yourself from your son for too long," Charis said. "Every night, you are away from him."

Accustomed as she was to Charis, Andromache still did not expect such bluntness and her surprise was obvious, for the woman took advantage of her speechlessness and went on.

"I've wondered why you never took him with you, placed him in a cradle at the foot of the bed. He cannot be harmed by what you and Eudorus do. You have acted as if you are ashamed of it, and you needn't be. What is so shameful about becoming his wife in all but name? He is truly the closest thing to a father your son will have, but you have not tried to create that bond. Not at all. You have deliberately kept yourself in the position of being nothing else than nightly sport, when so much more is possible."

"Charis, it is really none of your concern!" she said frostily. "Why do you think you have authority to demand any such answers from me?"

When Charis' eyes widened, Andromache immediately felt self-conscious. It only took a couple beats of her agitated pulse to realize that she had instinctively drawn herself up, chin tilted ever so slightly in offense that she had been questioned so personally. Quickly, too quickly, she let her posture slacken and grappled to assume once again the dignified yet humble temperament that usually masked her more imperious impulses.

"I'm sorry, Nephele," Charis said warily, turning her attention back to the wool. "I was only concerned for your son."

"I know, Charis," Andromache said, apologetic. "You've been very kind to him. You're kind to all the children here."

Charis smiled. "I was committed to chastity, but that doesn't preclude motherly feelings at all. When Dirce's daughter died, she thought I wept false tears. I had to assure her they were not."

Dirce, a strong Lycian girl who mainly worked in the fields, had borne Eudorus a girl in early spring. Unlike her mother, the child was sickly and had succumbed to a fever before the next full moon. There were other children. Only two, a boy and a girl, could claim Eudorus as their father; the others had already been conceived before arriving here, the fathers being other captors or dead husbands and lovers. One woman, Agathe, had been a whore in Adrasteia and had passed through many hands before landing amongst Eudorus' spoils; she knew not the identity of her son's father. A few of those born had died during or soon after birth, like Dirce's child. _It is such a strange, sad place, this village in the hills,_ Andromache thought. _But there are no doubt so many more like it._

"Why have you not conceived, after all this time?" Charis asked.

Andromache began to bristle but, remembering her prior lapse, she smothered it. "That is up to the gods, Charis," she said, "as you must well know. I have made no offerings, so I don't think they are much concerned." She brought a hand to her flat stomach. "I've been through that condition twice before, so I will know immediately should it happen again. I'm simply not as fertile as other women, and I never have been. Is that a satisfactory answer, Kallisto?"

Charis smiled slightly at the inference that she was as demanding as the domineering cook. "Very," she replied, loosening a knot with a tug by graceful fingers.

"I'll go find my son now, if it is well with you. I've some treats for him."

Charis glanced at the meat and sweetened fruit in her hand, but said nothing. Andromache moved away, but halted when she heard Charis say, "He'd best have you by him tonight. Those are sure to cause a stomachache."

Andromache quickly looked over at her shoulder and caught Charis staring at her with thoughtful curiosity. The expression on her face made Andromache decide the comment had been deliberately provocative.

_She is testing me, to see if I will lose my temper again. Maybe it's not Kallisto who will find me out after all, _she thought, less fearful than she expected. Charis was not Eudorus' confidant, unlike Kallisto. If Charis discovered her identity, Andromache felt assured that she could convince the woman to keep her silence, but rather that day never dawn!

She continued onward in the direction of the well, wondering if her diversion with Charis had put her far behind Iasemi. She looked down at the treats in her hand, clucking her tongue at the sad state of the fruit. The honey had seeped out from the heat and her fingers were sticky.

A child's laughter drifted through the sultry summer air and she recognized it as Astyanax's. It quickened her steps, as much from her desire to see him as to give him his treats so she could wash her hand.

She rounded one of the huts and stopped when she saw Iasemi sitting in the shade created by the well's roof. Astyanax sat on her lap and continued to laugh at the source of his mirth.

Eudorus was crouched down in front of Iasemi, his hands held up in front of Astyanax, who had his own small hands bunched into fists. With a triumphant cry, her son smacked one of them into Eudorus' open palm. She watched as Eudorus teetered back onto his heels in a show of being overwhelmed by the force of the punch, provoking another shriek of glee from Astyanax.

Iasemi giggled at the spectacle, but her laughter faded when she looked up and saw that they were being watched. Eudorus did not notice the change in her demeanor and continued his game with Astyanax, this time prying the child's fists apart and conveying that he was to keep his hands open.

"Hands up, Phaedrus," she heard Eudorus say. "Like this." He gave him an encouraging pat on the cheek when Astyanax readily obeyed. Then he gently swatted his broad fingers into Astyanax's palms, first one, then the other. Her son countered them with immediate precision, snapping his hands into fists and pummeling Eudorus' palms. They alternated boxing each other until Eudorus looked at Iasemi with a pleased grin, saw that she was no longer paying attention, and followed her gaze.

Andromache felt her body flood with cold, her feet rooted to the dusty ground. She could not speak, her tongue thick and dry in her mouth, her throat burning at the sight before her. Her eyes suddenly veiled with tears.

When she heard Iasemi call out her name, she realized that she was only hearing it from a distance. Without realizing it, she had turned and run away.

* * *

"Come out of there, Nephele. You'll cry all over the food and set it to molding!" 

Silence.

Kallisto turned to Eudorus and Iasemi with a frustrated toss of her hands into the air. They stood outside the food storeroom, a semi-subterranean building into which Iasemi had seen Andromache disappear after scrambling to her feet to follow her.

"What caused her to run like that?" Eudorus asked, looking to Iasemi.

Iasemi bounced Astyanax on her hip and bit her lower lip in hesitation. When Kallisto glowered at her, she whispered, "Today she mentioned to me that she had a dream last night of her husband playing with their son." She looked up at Eudorus uncomfortably. "And then she saw you doing that very same thing."

Eudorus' and Kallisto's eyes met, his unasked question answered with a quick nod of her head towards the open door.

When Iasemi made to pass them, her duty to Andromache calling to her, Kallisto stopped her with a hand on her chest.

"No. He will go."

She numbly let Kallisto take Astyanax from her arms and transfer him to Eudorus. "This is what's needed," Kallisto said to him. "You, her, and the child."

Iasemi watched in mute fascination as Eudorus obeyed, disappearing into the dark, cool room. Astyanax paid her no heed, and her last glimpse was of him looking up at Eudorus in a wondering expression of trust and interest. She sidled over to Kallisto.

"Well, we can hope this will end better than that mess with Tryphena," the old woman muttered. "Nephele's not so overwrought she'll try to stab herself with a carrot."

Iasemi's nerves got the better of her and she gave a sharp squeak of laughter, an outburst that was cut short when Kallisto slapped her smartly on the arm.

"None of that idiocy, girl. Back to the kitchen with you."

"And where will you be?" Iasemi challenged.

"Right here, but I won't have eyes, ears and nose pressed and cocked to the four winds like you would. So off with you!"

* * *

Eudorus stood in the middle of the room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The building was a small stone box, devoid of windows, with a cellar dug underneath for those foodstuffs that required more protection from the elements and heat of summer. As soon as he could see more clearly, he noticed that the mat of bound sticks that covered the hole leading down to the cellar was upright and Nephele was nowhere in sight. 

_She's run away like a frightened child, _he thought, pushing aside his annoyance at this display of weakness. He was all too aware that Kallisto was only scant feet away, expecting him to act as the situation demanded.

He did not need to be reminded or taught how to approach those of quicksilver emotions. His long years serving Achilles in all his volatile moods was ample education, but at times it still felt inadequate when Nephele was involved.

He had never had to navigate around such obvious sorrow before, at least not when he felt it acutely himself. Grief-stricken slave women were nothing new, of course, but he had never let it bother him overmuch. Yet, Nephele's grief pained him. He often saw it, flashing briefly in her eyes or flitting across her features. It mattered not if he lay between her thighs and felt her accept and welcome him into her body. He could still hear a note of regret in her cries and see guilt in her eyes, even when genuine pleasure throbbed and ebbed through both their bodies.

Often he wanted to tell her that whatever she missed, whatever she lacked, he would provide it. It was a haunting pain he saw, one he felt compelled to assuage. A strange, ridiculous notion pestered him, but he was unable to rid himself of it: many nights when alone with her, he felt the presence of another. It was powerful; intimidating, even. He had felt such presence before: when watching Ajax lay waste to his foes, when subjected to Achilles' tightly-coiled anger, when looking upon the mightiest of Trojans, Hector, as he took to the field against first Patroclus, then Achilles himself. The sensation was familiar, but not at all comforting.

Kallisto was confident that it was a god. He dismissed such talk, although not from disbelief that it was possible. He knew it was something else, something more formidable than the forceful presence of a glorious hero, warrior or god. He suspected it was simply memories, years and years of memories that she kept about her like the thickest city walls. Never had he encountered an opponent like it and he was reluctant to square off against it.

Phaedrus fussed softly and the room suddenly seemed quieter. Eudorus realized only then that there had been another sound, that of muffled weeping.

A head slowly emerged from the hole in the floor, the figure pausing on the ladder to look at him in first surprise, then indecision.

"I thought it was Iasemi," she mumbled, implying she would not have shown herself had she known differently.

When he saw that she was not moving, he held Phaedrus out to her. She hesitated, and though he could not see her face clearly in the poor light, he sensed she was distrustful, perhaps suspected a ploy. If that was so, she needed to finally accept that it was not the case, and would never be so.

He returned Phaedrus to his snug embrace and retreated to take a seat on an upended barrel, prepared to wait.

It was not long. He watched Nephele stare dully at the dirt floor before her, her hands squeezing and releasing the sides of ladder, until she sighed and sniffed back what remained of her tears. With a reproachful look at him over her shoulder, she scaled the rest of the ladder and stopped before him.

He said nothing, again held Phaedrus out to her. This time she took him, but not as quickly as he suspected she would. "At least you're no longer afraid," he said.

"If I was to hold him again, I had to come close. It was obvious I had little choice."

He rose, was relieved to see that she stood her ground and did not step backwards. "I see little of you during the day, Nephele," he said. "I would not have it that way any longer."

"Whenever you desire me, my lord, I await your command." Her eyes were studiously averted, the sacks of flour in the corner of the room suddenly commanding her attention.

He sighed inwardly. That was no solution, not even if he sometimes burned for his days mirror the nights.

"No, Nephele, I only desire you to shed something that can't be seen." He paused, unsure how to continue. Words had never come easily to him. In the past, when he found himself in a verbal quandary with Achilles or anyone else, he had been able to either remain silent or mask it with a jibe or deprecating shrug. Nephele commanded a different approach without saying a word.

Her gaze left its rapt study of the flour sacks and had fixed upon him. Her face was still in shadow, but he could see the glint of moist eyes and smell the salt of drying tears on her cheeks. He forged ahead, grabbing at whatever words tumbled into his head, tired of restraining himself, tired of doubting what to say and how to say it.

"It is as if you only want to warm my bed," he said. "You keep yourself away during the day. I don't even have you at night, Nephele. We lie together and you could not be more passionate, but there is something. It surrounds you. I can feel it surrounding me and it…" He shook his head in baffled surrender and looked to her in a bid for help.

_Speak, damn you!_ he wanted to say. _Why be so wretched, so despondent? Is your life so intolerable? Is the thought of opening your heart to me so repugnant?_

He did not know how to even begin voicing these thoughts and retain his manhood. He feared that as soon as the first syllable passed his lips, his own despair and hurt would be obvious, pitiful, ripe for mockery. He could already imagine her response, the scorn on those beautiful, deceptively soft lips: _I've given you my body, Myrmidon, and yet you want more?_

With a frustrated growl at her persistent silence and his own inability to cleverly school his thoughts into words, he brushed past her. Given a choice between this awful silence and Kallisto's anger that he had botched her intended outcome, he would gladly endure Kallisto's disappointment.

"Eudorus."

Her usually gentle voice with its well-formed speech now begged him to stop with but a husky utterance of his name.

"This…thing that surrounds me," she went on, the words coming as hesitant as he feared his would have, "I would not have it frighten you."

"It doesn't frighten me," he replied. "I know what it is. You once told me yourself. Memories. Of a man frozen in perfection."

"I can see you through them. I do, and when I feel that I want to pass through them, something stays me. I feel that I can't, I mustn't."

"Kallisto says the presence is a god who favors you."

He heard the amused sadness in her question. "Do you believe that?"

"No, but I do think that, to your eyes, he was a god. I've seen and known many men who were as near to gods as it is possible for mortals to be. Achilles. Ajax. Even Odysseus, who I'm sure could outwit a god. I once stood closer to Hector of Troy than I am to you now. I know the presence of earthly gods, Nephele, but I also know that even the poorest fisherman can outshine Apollo in his wife's eyes."

When she didn't immediately reply, he wondered if she had decided she had been too honest, too vulnerable.

Then, more hoarsely than before: "Then you know my husband."

"I think I do."

He watched her draw closer to him, felt a wariness mingle with hope grow within him. Phaedrus still hung in her arms, but he had lost interest in the tiresome, uninteresting words and was amusing himself with the bead necklace and pendant around his mother's throat.

"Can you live with him?" she asked. "Can you endure even one more night with him?"

"I would have you happy, Nephele." He took a step forward and let his hands rest on her waist and slide over her hips. "Your body has told me many nights it is pleased and willing. Let the rest of you join it, and me. We have been waiting."

Large, silvery tears had been gathering in her eyes, and several now rolled down cheeks marked by a gauntness that no amount of food or sleep could correct. He brushed them away with tender kisses and was about to draw away when he felt her slender hand settle around the nape of his neck, keeping his mouth close to hers.

"I want to be happy," she whispered. "I want to feel you and have it be your face I see. I want to be glad that it is your face, and not ashamed."

"Trust me, Nephele, and it will happen."

Her mouth pressed against his, first slow and languorous, then more insistent. Her fingertips flushed from cool to warm, making his scalp tingle from the rapid shift.

He could not describe it in a way that made sense, but he was overwhelmed by the image of her emerging from a stony cell to stand wonderingly in the heat of the sun. This was followed by the realization that the flesh beneath his hands was suddenly softer, that it was her ― and only her.

The invisible armor, that suffocating, impenetrable presence, had been lowered. It would never be gone, he knew. He would accept that. But one day, perhaps, she would be his as completely as she had once been another's.

He had always been a loyal soldier to Achilles, patient and steadfast. As lover and husband, he would serve Nephele just as faithfully.

When their lips parted, she favored him with a smile, as if she had read his vow in his eyes.

* * *

Hell no, Hector's not forgotten. As if. But you know, moving on and all that… 


	22. Chapter 22

Sorry this took so long. Not only did I find it hard to write Paris/Helen again, but I got sidetracked on my own genealogy and also had a mega-fangirl freakout in my obscure Victorian actor RPF fandom (Population: me) that sent me into orbit for a while. I'm back on Earth now.

Thanks for the reviews from last chapter. I'm just sorry it took me forever to update! It won't be so long next time. I promise.

**Chapter 22**

Paris had rarely, if ever, had cause to reflect during his years as a carefree prince in Troy. Any serious contemplation had bored him, struck him as a tedious way to spend the hours when there were women to love, wine to drink, and friends to share company. Even after falling in love with Helen, he had thought of little more than satisfying his desires, only then it was for his new wife.

But now, bereft as he was of matters to keep him otherwise preoccupied, he often found himself alone in the contradictory vast confines of Pharaoh's palace, sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. The hunts had long ago failed to amuse or divert his troubled mind. Although he enjoyed Helen's body on some nights, he was not as insistent on dining as often as he once did. The taste was ash in his mouth, the dish warmed over and pale. That he had this sense did not surprise him; he was, after all, supping on Rameses' leavings, and his stinging pride had transformed into a dull pain. But a man needed nourishment, and he gladly took it.

So he occasionally retreated to the rooftop of Rameses' palace or the labyrinthine corridors, always with a sharp eye towards his safety. He did not trust Pharaoh, always suspected that his own sense of uselessness was shared by others. For months he had been an inconvenient presence as Rameses made love to Helen, and when Pharaoh had taken a new wife upon Nefertari's death and directed his passions elsewhere, Paris felt no safer. It was also obvious that, despite Nefertari's confidence that Rameses would assist he and Helen in their plans to reclaim Troy, the actual ruler of Egypt was of a different mind. If Rameses was interested in an alliance, he was in no haste to act upon it.

The impatience had become more than Paris could bear, but the long hours and forced reflection had not been wasted time. He had come to a bitter and sad, yet ultimately peaceful reckoning with himself during one long and lonely vigil as he watched the moon rise over the dark Nile soil. He had a surfeit of memories, but for some reason the fight with Menelaus had played itself over and over in his mind. He could feel every blow Menelaus had delivered and, in a moment of confusion, had even wiped at his face, expecting to see blood come away on his fingers. He could see Hector's pained expression, his shame at his little brother's cowardice, but also the fierce desire to keep him safe from all harm. He remembered clinging to Hector's leg as a man lost at sea clings to flotsam, sniveling and abandoning all dignity and pride.

_What an undeserving wretch I was, _Paris lamented, head buried in his hands, fingers gripping his locks in painful self-recrimination.

He had wept that night, not caring if the moon was his only company or if one of Rameses' spies witnessed him. As the tears scorched his cheeks, he wished that Hector sat beside him so he could ask for forgiveness and vow that he would forever be a better man. _Would that I had not forced your hand,_ he thought. _I shall not fail you again, Brother…_

After staggering to his bed, he had slept soundly for the rest of the night, a sleep so profound that he woke with a sense of trepidation at how clear his mind had suddenly become. He knew what he wanted, so why not take matters into his own hands to achieve it? He realized that there was little impeding him. He had no thronéd king and father with entrenched, opposing notions to navigate around, as Hector had suffered to his detriment. He had no council of generals and priests who claimed greater wisdom. It was only him. For good or ill, he could act on his own and hope to bring matters around to his favor.

Waiting was achieving nothing. His only obstacle was a dithering pharaoh who had barely squeezed a victory out of a confrontation with the Hittites in Kadesh years ago, a battle that had cost both nations greatly. The longer Paris had been in Egypt, the more he realized that Rameses did not want part of a venture that did not have an assured outcome. His own arguments that Agamemnon would be solidifying his power the longer they postponed an offensive had no effect upon Rameses' enigmatic interest. Helen had also tried to press their suit using her arsenal of talents, but her efforts had achieved only marginally positive results. An order to the Treasurer to set aside funds for a navy was given, but Paris knew that it would be forgotten soon enough, if it had not been already.

Pharaoh's hand had to be forced. That much was clear. Rameses needed some proof that it would be an easier venture than his worst fears of a bloody, costly draw. The morning after his painful reconciliation with Hector's spirit, Paris decided he would be the one to give Rameses his incentive to aid them.

It would be dangerous. Death was a real possibility if his plan went awry, but rather death in the active pursuit of something real than to die when Rameses' patience finally ended.

One man had united a group of squabbling factions with the mission of conquering Troy. Without him, the factions would again fall to their original state. The fatigue from the war would accelerate the process. An Egyptian force could roll onward to Troy and easily reclaim the city from its Grecian conquerors. He was willing to give Rameses tribute for perpetuity, as long as he and Helen sat upon the throne. It was what Helen wanted and it was his rightful inheritance. He would not spend the rest of his life a fugitive, begging shelter and selling his wife for favors.

If the Fates were kind, he would succeed in robbing Agamemnon of his life.

* * *

"And if you fail, what of me?"

"If I fail, then you will at last be rid of me and my foolish schemes."

Helen tilted her head back to look up into Paris' face. "Don't jest about it," she said solemnly, the smile on her husband's mouth doing nothing to assure her, despite it being the familiar expression of long ago days where Paris had brimmed with careless confidence.

It was a welcome change, this reversion. Paris' demeanor of late had been dour, morose rather than petulant. The dark shadows under his eyes had deepened, the look within them growing more haunted and defeated by the day until she could not help noticing his haggard appearance. Guilt had struck her upon this revelation, and her infatuation with Rameses began to pale as Pharaoh's inaction became too obvious to ignore. Rameses' new marriage hastened the uncomfortable realization, and she began to feel as outside and apart as she was certain Paris had felt all along while in Egypt.

She had been blind, allowed the boundless might and passion of Rameses to blind her, and she could feel the consequences of her foolishness beneath her now. While her heart still fluttered from their lovemaking and her limbs felt heavy and spent, Paris exuded calm. Detachment. His body was not rigid, as if to shun her touch, but it was impassive, simply something for her to curl up against. It was all the stranger that their passion had been unforced and satisfying. During these long months under Rameses' seductive spell, she was ashamed to have to be reminded that Paris was, and had always been, a wonderful and fulfilling lover. What had once been infectious exuberance had become an exciting display of determined mastery.

She ran a palm over his chest, her fingers tracing unseen patterns across the bronzed skin. He sighed softly, way back in his throat, and she smiled to herself when he grasped her hand and wove his fingers through hers. The new, calm discipline was welcome, but impulsive gestures such as this warmed her heart more, evoking as they did memories of past days when he wanted to touch her in any small way.

"It is nice to have you back with me," he said, hearing his voice hitch once as he spoke, though only slightly. "Something feels different today."

Helen nestled her cheek against his chest as she shifted herself against him more comfortably. "It is because it's nearly midday," she said. "We have rarely been abed together so late. At least since…"

Paris nodded stiffly, wrenching his mind away from this admittance of infidelity to focus entirely on his plan. There were matters to discuss, contingencies to assess…

"Urshé will still be here to protect you," he said, "although it may be prudent for both of you to leave Pi-Ramesse quickly if you receive word that my mission has failed. Rameses may decide to curry favor with Agamemnon instead and hand you over to him."

"And what's to prevent Urshé from doing the same to me? He is loyal only as long as he thinks we have Troy in our grasp. Should you die, that will no longer be possible." Helen shivered, although the room was sweltering from the blistering heat that pulsed through the open window.

"You will do what you must, Helen," he said. "I will be beyond helping you at that point."

"You need not worry about my safety," she whispered, more bravely than she felt, "but the waiting shall torture me. I will go to bed every night and wake up every morning with but one thought and one prayer."

"You do understand why I must do it?" Paris asked. "Troy will ever be as distant to us as a man crawling towards a mirage, as long as we wait for Pharaoh's actions to match his words. I must take the first step myself. I cannot trust it to anyone else. I have had enough of betrayal."

"I know, I know," Helen said quickly, hearing the hard edge his voice had acquired. "There seems little else we can do." She closed her eyes, concentrating on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek. "I am so sorry, Paris," she whispered.

When he did not reply, she rolled her bottom lip between her teeth in indecision. It felt like she was being punished, that Paris was no longer willing to assist her in any uncomfortable moment. He wanted to hear every word from her lips and leave the days of assumptions and unspoken understandings behind. If she had a thought or desire, she would have to utter it, plainly and openly.

"You don't trust me. I wish you would simply say it."

"I do trust you. In matters such as this." He reached down and tilted her chin upwards so she could look into his eyes. "I have my father's blood, making the throne mine by right. You want the throne. You cannot have it without me."

Helen dared not break his gaze. Not that he frightened her, but it was a blunt and ugly truth he spoke and she knew that if she averted her eyes, he would feel even more contempt for her than currently. She had allowed herself to succumb to such fanciful dreams, their humbled position so alien to her that she had clutched at Rameses' promises with unwarranted conviction. She now realized how foolish that had been, how vain and wistful. It was as if she had reverted to her young self and deliberately forgot all that she had learned about the deceitful ways of powerful men.

"I would not have the throne without you, Paris," she replied. "You are the one I will always look to for love and comfort, from this day onward."

Paris' finger remained poised under her chin and she wished desperately she could read his thoughts. She cursed that she had neglected him so. While her attentions had been diverted elsewhere, he had transformed from a prince into an exiled king. His decisions would hopefully be less reckless, yes, but she sorely missed her Paris. He even looked different…

"I don't think I could get accustomed to the beard, my love," she said with an uneasy smile, running her fingers through the coarse, curling hair. "But I think it will be a suitable disguise."

"If I have the stink of the sea on me, I doubt anyone will see a prince of Troy under it. I will simply be a humble sailor. We shall see if it works. The first test will be the port here. If I go unrecognized, then I may finally take an easy breath."

Helen pulled herself up alongside him and nuzzled at his throat and neck, her nose wrinkling at the memory of Menelaus' gnarled beard.

Paris chuckled upon seeing her distaste. "I just may keep it," he said, scratching at it in thought. "As far as I know, Andromache had no such objections to Hector's. It will age me nicely, I think. My father took such pride in his beard."

"You're at peace with Hector," she said, almost as much to herself as to him. "That is the first time you have spoken of him without looking ready to cast yourself from a high wall."

Paris smiled. "That I am, Helen," he said, then released a happy sigh. "Hector should be on that throne, but I will rule as if he were."

Helen could not share his joy and sense of peace, and her failure to smile puzzled him.

"You will see, Helen," he said. "There is something of Hector in me. I believe I have found it, at long last."

"It's not that," she said, rolling onto her back and making a show of arranging the coverlet. "If you're to be Hector, then what am I?"

"You needn't feel you must be Andromache," Paris said, "if that's what is troubling you."

"Oh, mustn't I?" she replied tersely. "I'm a failed queen, and a failed wife twice over. I cannot even be a mother. My womb is as barren as the desert that surrounds us. Everything Andromache is…or was, I am assuredly not. She never failed Hector. Even her missteps, if she had any, would have never been held against her."

Paris struggled to follow her heated enumeration of perceived faults. "You're being ridiculous," he said with a baffled shake of his head. "Andromache should have nothing to do with how you see yourself. She certainly didn't hold you up against her accomplishments and find you wanting."

"Troy did! Even if we should take the city back, it will be a hard road until they accept me as queen. I don't care what your father said to me that day on the stairs of the palace. He was only being kind. Troy would have Andromache back without qualm, but not me." Helen brought her hands to her face and gave a small, tight groan of frustration. "Oh, let it be all over!" she whispered fiercely. "I cannot bear it any longer!"

The day no longer seemed so bright, the air not so warm. She let her hands fall when she felt Paris' arm slipping around her shoulders. "Helen, you will be queen again," he whispered. "And you will be a good queen. If I am to be as great a king as Hector would have been, I will need you to stand strong beside me. We cannot doubt ourselves any longer. Believe in me, Helen. We will have our throne."

* * *

"If we wan't short of hands, you'd be over the side with the fishes. Lucky for you that you didn't brag about skills you don't have. At least you was honest about it."

Paris paused, the spoon of his gruel hovering over the bowl. "A man has to make his way back home somehow," he said with a grin. "I'm just trying to do it as honestly as I can."

The captain shrugged and turned his attention back to his own meal. The sun had sunk behind the horizon, sending a spire of brilliant light up into the sky in a final defiant display. It would be growing dark soon. Within minutes, all hands had to be quickly about their nighttime work rituals, readying the ship to ride out another night on the open sea. Spoons began to shovel the thin soup more quickly into greedy mouths, hunks of stale bread sopping up the leavings.

Paris kept his eyes on his bowl and congratulated himself on another day coming to a close with no one the wiser as to his true identity. Slipping from the palace had been somewhat difficult, but finding a ship bound for Greece that needed sailors had been easier to accomplish. A vessel stuffed with fabrics and fancy pottery had sat at dock, in need of men to helm the oars and ensure the safest voyage possible to the other side of the sea.

After ascertaining that the ship's destination was indeed Greece, Paris volunteered his services. With a friendly smile and a story about wanting to return to Greece after years of wandering abroad, he was ushered aboard. His ready acknowledgement that he knew little of sailing, but enough to keep a ship from sinking, seemed to put him in good stead with the captain.

"That's all I ask of you, lad," he said, a rough, salty-looking fellow whose sea-worn face and arms had the appearance of old leather. "This boat belongs to some silly fool of Mighty Rameses. He's come into a bit of fortune from conniving his way up the ranks and he wanted to make a bit on the side, I suspect. That's where you and I come in. We get the goods to Greece safely and bring the profits back with us. Real simple, except for the winds and weather. Keep her afloat is all we can do." With a friendly slap on his back, Paris was ushered aboard and the first, vital step of his mission was over.

Although Paris felt his seafaring skills were passable, he was relieved when the weather showed no inclination of testing him. Bright skies dawned and lasted through twilight. Rather than riding out storms and clinging to rails and rigging, the men were able to enjoy the excursion and pretend they were sailing for pleasure, not pay.

Paris found himself in more amiable spirits than he had expected, despite going to sleep at night with a sore body from the exertions of his new trade. With every fair weather day, he was increasingly confident that he would not meet his end on the bottom of the sea. Death could still be over the horizon, in Mycenae, but it was not today, not tonight, and that was all that mattered to him now.

As the sun set on this fifth day at sea, he spooned the last of his soup into his mouth and looked up at the sky. A few of the brightest stars had already shown themselves, ready to guide every boat that rode the slowly, undulating waves below.

"It's almost too beautiful," he said. "If one could live at sea and never reach land, I think I would choose that to spend the rest of my days."

The captain grunted in amusement. "You'll be chirping a different song if we're blown off course or stuck in the doldrums. If you like the sea so much, I'll send you over the side to push us out of it."

A ripple of laughter sounded through the gathered sailors, but Paris did not hear ridicule. He had suffered little of that on this voyage, and he laid that success at the door of his quiet, determined execution of his duties. At first, manning a ship seemed as unlike the duties of a shepherd on the slopes of Mount Ida, but a familiarity soon set in, and Paris found himself tending the sails and ropes as patiently as he had the ewes and lambs. A welcome peace also settled over him, and he wondered if he would not better serve himself to abandon this scheme to regain the throne. What had royal concerns ever brought him but disappointment, sorrow, and frustration?

"Look at the boy! He's not even a-scared of pirates!"

Paris was jolted from his thoughts when the sailor beside him nudged him in the ribs. "They be talking about you," he said. Turning to the others, the man added, "He got his head up in the clouds too much to notice if a pirate ship be bearin' down on 'im!"

"Pirates aren't prowling these waters, are they?" Paris asked. "Not so far out to sea?"

The captain shook his head. "I haven't seen any myself, but I put it to luck. It's only a matter of time. The crew will get none of that lying, cheery talk from me. It's a real danger, it is." He leaned forward and addressed the others gathered. "It's near the coast we need to be watchful for. At first sight of any sail, we steer wide of it. Can't go wrong being too careful."

Paris set down his bowl and rose from his seated position on the deck. The gathering twilight suddenly looked sinister, conspiring to hide dangers that would prey on an innocent ship. Landfall was close. Perhaps a couple more days. The captain had admitted to a string of luck. Paris fervently hoped it would continue to spin unbroken.

The shout of alarm snapped Paris out of his uneasy sleep. He had dozed off amongst the cargo lashed to the ship deck and found himself flailing to his feet in order to gain his bearings and hopefully see what threatened, if anything.

His eyes quickly adjusted, the thin clouds and full moon doing much to aid him. The sea was alight with an unworldly glitter, a dance of silver stars leaping from wave to wave. But a shape not of nature marred the meeting of moonlight and water. A large black sail ate a hole on the horizon.

The voice of the watchman on the mast came down to those on deck, and the cry of "Pirates!" picked up with more urgency and certainty. Men rushed past him to get to their oars, their feet pounding out a beat that vied between determined calm and uneasy panic. Paris stumbled from his cozy nook and was about to run to the prow to gain a better look when voices from the stern added to the alarm.

"Two ships! No, three! They're drawing close! Look to your backs!"

"The speed be unnatural!" said one of the men beside Paris as they looked astern. "What wind fills their sails?"

"Row until your arms break!" came the captain's order over the nervous murmurings. "Northwest. Let's see if we can catch that same wind."

Paris smothered the burning desire to keep his eyes on the ever quicker approaching ships and rushed to his oar. The man who had sat beside him on the journey thus far was already plying the water with sharp, relentless strokes. Paris fell onto the bench and grabbed the oar on its return arc.

Within seconds, all hands were to oars and the ship altered course in a bid to outrun their pursuers. Paris cleared his mind of everything, focused entirely on the rhythm of pulling the oar. He ignored the screaming pain in his arms, back and thighs. He did not even think of Helen. All that consumed him was survival, of taking this ship far enough away so pursuit would become too burdensome.

Despite this, when he felt his arms about to give out, he imagined how satisfying it would be to give Agamemnon another grinning smile, only blood red from ear to ear.

It was all for naught. A ragged cry of anger and despair ripped from his throat when he felt their hull collide with another to the accompaniment of triumphant hoots from the men who hunted under the black sail.

* * *

They had their lives, more than what anyone on the Egyptian vessel expected.

Only one man had attempted to fight, ignoring the order of their captain to wager on discretion rather than valor. For his trouble, the sorry fool had been dispatched to Hades with but a stroke of a pirate sword. His slayer, a spare and hawkish-looking member of the marauding crew, clasped a hand to his wounded arm with a curse and a dirty glare at the rest of the gathered prisoners before retreating to inspect his wound.

"Anyone else itching to be a hero?"

The eyes of the captured sailors lingered on the limp, bleeding corpse of their comrade before turning towards the pirate captain. The man seemed content with the ease of his capture and nodded sharply in satisfaction when no one answered his challenge.

Paris was doing his utmost to keep his breathing even, his face stripped of all betraying emotions of terror. He was grateful for his semi-hidden position in the back of the group, where he could think and assess his next step. He was glad that these humble, simple men were holding their ranks and had not displayed any cowardice. He did not want to be forced into action. Not yet.

Escape was impossible at the moment, but he would not succumb to hopelessness. He had already been a prisoner of sorts in Egypt. He had not left only to become one in the fullest and most dire sense of the word, but if he must endure captivity again then he would be wise about it and flee with prudence.

The breeze surged, ruffled his hair and brought to his nostrils the dark scent of land. He could make out another dark shape on the horizon, this time unmovable Greece, not a fleet ship propelled by robbery. Gulls' cries were growing louder. Landfall, if it came, would be imminent.

"What do you mean to do wi' us?" Paris heard his captain ask. "Take the cargo. It's what you come for anyway, I 'spect."

"Aye, we'll do that, no fear," was the smug reply. His eyes glinted as he smiled. "You might have just stumbled into the best piece of luck you'll ever know," he told his opponent. "I have the ear of my, well, lord, I suppose you might say. None of us is above the other. He's agreed with me that there'll be safety in numbers in our particular business."

"Before I refuse," the merchant captain said, "I'd at least know your name."

The rebuff did not have its intended effect. The man laughed, his sea-weathered face crinkling into a merry mask. "You foreigners never fail to make this job worth its while, and not only in the precious cargo you carry. You are a very queer lot!"

Paris peered over the shoulder of the man in front of him and saw the Egyptian's face hardening in annoyance at being made sport of in front of his crew. "Just tell me," the man repeated more impatiently, "and I'll decide whether to cast my lot with you and your lord."

The pirate took the Egyptian by the arm and led him off to the prow of the ship, there to continue discussion of men's lives and wealth. Paris wondered if foremost in his captain's mind was the punishment sure to fall upon him from Ramses' official should he return to home port with no cargo and nothing to show for it except for a tale about pirates.

The sailors began to shuffle and look at each other with varying expressions of hope, dread, and calm resignation. One youth, however, was visibly fighting tears, which earned him an impatient cuff from the seasoned hand beside him. "Keep that up," he was told, "and you'll be served up to this lord of his like a lamb."

"Who do you think he is?" was another muttered comment. "What's happened to these waters since the war ended? It's men fighting like dogs for scraps."

"A fine lot of 'scraps' we have. Any man with an eye to getting rich or richer would crawl over his own mother to get it."

This hum of speculation immediately ceased when the captains parted and the Egyptian looked towards his men. His expression, a curious duel between defeat and relief, told his mean all that they had wondered, feared and hoped: their voyage as merchant sailors was at an end, but their futures were not doomed.

Paris watched him approach, each step strengthening his suspicion that the dawn would find another predator crawling the waves.

"I'd not presume to speak for all of you," the captain said, "but I've got little choice this time. I think it be best, though. Menesthius yonder has given us slavery or piracy. I don't know your minds, men, but my life is precious to me and it could have been snuffed out, as could yours. Think on that."

He paused, his gaze unwavering, as though daring any of them to take umbrage at his course of action.

"Are you expecting gratitude?" came an indignant reply. Paris' eyes followed the others and they all stared at the unhappy speaker. He was a young man, and Paris recalled him as being of singular impatience and confidence. He had chosen to avoid his company, when possible. There was too much about the man that was uncomfortably familiar.

"Your new wife will simply have to wait for you awhile longer," the captain sighed, his sympathy unfeigned. "It won't be easier for those of us with older wives, Seioth." He threw out his hands in a plea for understanding. "Think of this new venture as soldiering for a foreign king, but only temporarily. I've been assured that it will not be a permanent arrangement."

Paris could contain himself no longer. He was tired of listening to others talk, and he now asked the question he suspected everyone else was burning to know.

"And who is to be our foreign king? Whose pockets will we be filling with our piracy?"

Their captain shrugged. "I asked for a name, but was given none." He smiled grimly. "But I will tell you something that might improve your gratitude." Obviously, he thought he had done well by his men, and the lack of appreciation still stung. He cast a reproachful glance at the young, unhappy husband. "I've been on the waters a long time and know more than my share of the people in this region. There's nobody more feared and respected than the Myrmidons, boys, and that be what our fine pirate friend calls himself."

"Myrmidons?" The word was uttered from several mouths, some in shocked recognition, others in ignorant confusion.

Paris found himself with no voice, the word cutting through him like a sharpened knife as memories of Andromache's terrified screams on the beach sliced his heart, his very gut. Guilt surged within him as strong as he had ever experienced, intensified by remembrance of his vow to Hector that lonely night to be a better man. His single, driven purpose had split asunder, one vying with the other for supremacy.

What should he do now? Andromache. Did she still live? More importantly, what of Astyanax? Would he ever sleep again if he never knew, if he did not follow the trail that now lay before him? And was he only worried because of what their survival might portend for he and Helen?

The shore was approaching, but Paris felt as though he was bobbing and lost in an endless, open sea, unsure in which direction he should swim. Discover the whereabouts of his beloved brother's widow and his son? Or pursue his own claim for the throne? Only scant months ago, he would not have hesitated, would have pressed on with his own desires. But now… _That damnable oath…_

When the ships beached, and the Myrmidon pirate captain began to issue orders to his newest, reluctant recruits, Paris listened as if in a daze. He heard words spoken, but they made no sense. His mind had become a jumble of thoughts, of what he wanted to do versus what he should do. His needs against the duty of seeking out his brother's wife, protecting his brother's heir.

He did not know why he should be so torn. Both that mission, and his original plan to kill Agamemnon, had similar chances for success. One was as uncertain as the other. _What to do…?_ Just when he had begun to rule his actions using his brother as a guiding spirit, this situation had arisen where Hector's choice was so obvious it might have been written in fire across the heavens.

He brought a hand to his eyes, trying to rub away the ache that had settled behind his left eye. Sharp, shooting pains racked his head even as he sought to banish them. He did not realize he was being spoken to until the man beside him nudged him in the ribs, causing him to flinch and look up blearily into the face of the Myrmidon captain.

"Your captain says you're a sailor nigh on worthless," he said, lip curled derisively. "How are you at playing the mule?"

"You mean hauling and carrying?" Paris asked lifelessly. "I can do it, I suppose."

"No supposing about it," the Myrmidon snapped. "I won't have you mucking up my latest catch. That ship will be sailing under my colors for some time yet, and I'm weeding out the fools who have the slightest chance of sinking it. I can put your two arms to better use. You go over there." He pointed towards a small gathering of Egyptians who had been deemed similarly useless seamen.

He trudged over to the group, casting his former captain the briefest of glances as he passed. The Egyptian reached out a hand, gripped Paris by the upper arm. "I didn't lie about you…much," he whispered. "I've tried to get my men where I think they're best able to survive, and the water is not for you. You said you're from here anyway. I hope you can make it back to where you were going as best you can."

Paris smiled, a slight upturn of his lips. "Thank you…I guess."

The Egyptian returned the smile. "Menesthius has a full ship of goods to deliver to whoever is commanding him, and I suspect that's where you will be going starting tomorrow. Best of luck to you, lad. Look to yourself above everything else."

"I will, sir," Paris replied softly. "I definitely will."

* * *

For this fic, Helen has had no children since there was no reference to them in the movie.

Thanks for reading! Next chapter might be posted faster, although I'm going to be updating my LOTR fic next as a favor for my house-bound auntie who broke her hip and has been nagging at me to continue it. I'll be working hard the next few weeks!


	23. Chapter 23

Many, many thanks to Constant Distraction, LazyChestnut & FB (Hi there! I love you for delurking!) for reading and reviewing the last chapter. It took me so long to get this one done because of RL crapping all over everything. Oh yeah, and I wrote and posted another Eudorus fic in that time. Guilty!

Please, please, please review! (And I'm sorry that this is such a long chapter. It got away from me.)

* * *

**Chapter 23**

"I think everything is ready now."

Andromache's satisfied smile pulled into a frown as she again picked up the _strigil_ and ran her finger across the dulled edge.

"It won't flay him, mistress," Iasemi giggled from her position beside the warming cauldron of water. She poked at the coals beneath the grate. "He's survived your baths so far."

Andromache gave a sheepish nod. "You're quite right." She set the _strigil_ down reluctantly. "Does Kallisto need my help?"

"She wouldn't say even if she did," Iasemi sniffed, testing the temperature with a quick dip of her fingers and flicking away the water irritably. "The old fool breaks her leg and pretends she had three all along. She's more upset about not having that extra one to hit me over the head with."

"She's always treated you like a silly child," Andromache said, giving the _strigil_ another doubtful glance, "but it's not like you've done much to dispel that notion, my dear."

Rather than meekly accept the mild rebuke, Iasemi's cheeks flushed even brighter in indignation at past insults. "I'll never forgive her for ordering me about that day outside the root cellar, when she sent the master in to get you. My place was with you, but Kallisto wouldn't see it that way. Even two moons later, I want to hit her when I think about it."

Remembrance of that day still made Andromache pause, a hitch in her breath or step as she recalled the naked wounds both she and Eudorus had laid before the other in that comforting darkness. She had confessed her desire to, if not love him, at least be at ease with whatever feelings gripped her heart. He had laid bare his own desire to fulfill what she lacked, to take the place of a departed, beloved husband. For a Myrmidon, the coldest of mercenaries, to admit such weakness seared her conscience more than she would like to admit.

At times she wanted to weep, at others to laugh. There was something about she and Eudorus that reminded her of early years with Hector, as two young and fumbling newlyweds tried in good faith to adjust to a bond that had been thrust upon them, but often found pride, reticence, bursts of pragmatism, blurted honesties, and growing affection making an aggravating, wonderful trial of it all.

"Iasemi, it is as well you did not come in," she said. "We had a talk that was long in coming. Had you been there, it would never have happened. I'd have hidden behind you like a coward, and you would have protected me because that is your nature. Had I given Kallisto any command, it would have been to send you away as she did."

Before Iasemi could reply, Andromache jumped when something brushed against her leg. She looked down into a pair of deep brown eyes set within a lean, jackal-like face. A tongue lolled to the side in exhausted bliss.

"I don't see any trophy," she told the dog. "Did you hunt or just play?"

"The beast doesn't earn its keep," Iasemi muttered. "All it does is beg for scraps and lift its leg on everything it can find. I don't know how you tolerate it the way you do."

Andromache shrugged. "It can be a bother, yes, but…_that_ can be cleaned. If you would put aside your disgust for a bit, you'd discover just how welcome a dog is, especially on a bed in winter."

"Winter isn't for some time yet, so how do you know?" Iasemi stared at the grinning dog with palpable suspicion about its usefulness.

It crossed Andromache's mind that Iasemi was showing traits of her loathed kitchen overseer – the blunt speech and a puncturing sense of humor among them – but she wisely kept silent. No reason to antagonize her when the dog had already done so. In fact, she approved of the new, flinty Iasemi.

She had watched the girl gamely try to adjust to surroundings at utter odds from Priam's palace, despite an earlier life toiling in a dyer's shop. But it was not the labor alone, or the comparatively lesser status of her new master, which had tested Iasemi's mettle. As she herself had sometimes staggered under the burden of deception, so had Iasemi. For what seemed like ages after they were taken captive, Iasemi had been compelled to treat her as the princess she had loyally served for years. That impulse was one Andromache tried to ruthlessly smother, but she knew that Iasemi was bothered by it and wished to hold onto it as a familiar link to the past. Now, by acquiring a small measure of Kallisto's rather broad personality, she had begun to assert herself and her role as personal servant to the master's concubine with familiar ease and smug pleasure. Some of the other women were not as pleased with the development as Andromache was, but their opinions hardly mattered. Kallisto and the concubine ruled jointly. Second to Eudorus, their word was law in the household and scrupulously obeyed.

"I know winter is far off," Andromache said, "but I've been assured I'll be glad of this fellow's presence when those cold nights come."

"There is something unholy about it," Iasemi said, unconsciously making a superstitious gesture. "What mother would let their son start to sleep with _dogs_?"

Andromache laughed. "You'll need to ask Kallisto that since she is the one who began this habit of Eudorus'."

"You believe him about this cur in winter?" Iasemi's voice was still laden with skepticism. She reached out a tentative hand and stroked the fur between the perfectly pointed ears, failed to be won over, and snatched her hand away.

"Would it help you if he had a name?" Andromache asked gently. " 'He' and 'it' can be so frighteningly impersonal."

Iasemi nodded, not dismissive as Andromache expected, but with a reluctant, genuine interest in ridding herself of whatever bothered her about this creature. She felt as foolish as her mistress was accepting. "Can it be soon? He has been here for weeks already."

"One can't rush Eudorus into anything and it's his dog. He was the one who found the poor thing up in the hills. He's become frightfully sentimental about it!" She cupped the dog under the chin, looked into his eyes. "Yes, you're more important than I am! Aren't you, precious boy? You're just like some horses I used to know!"

This string of undignified babble shook Iasemi out of her sour suspicion and she giggled at the spectacle of her princess, her queen, speaking to the panting and smelly canine as if it were a child. "Maybe one night I'll borrow him from you and the master," she said, "but it will take much to convince me he'll be better than an extra blanket."

"You can keep your heavy layers of blankets, my child. I'd rather not feel like I was being buried alive."

The dog hopped up on its hind legs and placed a white-socked paw on Andromache's chest. She scratched him between the ears, prompting a large yawn before the dog collected himself and bounded off. Andromache reeled and fell against the edge of the terracotta tub, catching herself before falling into it in a tangled heap, but just barely.

"See?" Iasemi declared as she helped Andromache right herself. "That cur'll hurt you one day, sure as I breathe!"

Andromache waved her aside with a laugh. "Come, it's no different than having a child run into you after they've discovered how to walk. Phaedrus is nearly unstoppable now. Have you noticed lately?"

"I think the master is determined to have him climb Olympus before the year is out. I've never seen a toddler scramble over rocks the way he does."

"Nearly unstoppable," Andromache repeated, unable to stem her pride. "Eudorus is fast in the foot races, but I daresay one day my son will be faster."

A cacophony of barking, following by a child's laughter, drifted through the open door. Andromache patted Iasemi sympathetically when the girl clamped her hands over her ears. The dog's sharp barks did tend to wear on the nerves, particularly after a long day such as this. Their work was not yet done; Iasemi had Astyanax to tend to, and she had Eudorus.

"He really must name that dog," Andromache agreed, "so it'll know I'm talking to him when I tell it to be quiet!"

Iasemi laughed and nodded, then cautiously removed her hands. The noise had lessened tolerably, though not ceased. She gave an exhausted sigh. "Will you need me anymore tonight? I hear Phaedrus out there somewhere, so I'll grab him and get him ready for bed."

Andromache was about to agree when an abnormally tall figure filled the doorway, its size immediately diminished by the high child's voice that came from it. It spoke, but the speech was a sudden rush of sounds that strived to be words.

"Well! If you aren't just as tall as Tydeus now!" Andromache exclaimed. "You weren't this morning!"

"He found some magic berries," said the same figure in a deeper voice. "He shoved them in his mouth before I could stop him."

Andromache rushed over to Eudorus and looked up at Astyanax, who was riding comfortably on broad Myrmidon shoulders. "Do you know what kind?" she fretted, searching her son's face for signs of illness.

"Not poisonous," Eudorus assured her warmly. "Meton would be making him throw up now if they had been."

Astyanax reached out to her and Eudorus bent over she could pluck him from his lofty perch.

"You're a mess," she told her son, wiping at the dried berry stains on his cheeks with the edge of her sleeve. "Just how many did you eat?"

Astyanax squirmed in his mother's embrace and thrashed his head from side to side to avoid the hated cleaning ritual. He stilled, however, when Eudorus held his head between his hands.

"Listen to your mother," he said. The command was low but, like every soldier within his ranks, the child obeyed.

"Thank you," Andromache told him, sagging in relief. "He's too willful by half somedays."

Iasemi watched from the other side of the small room, wishing that she had seen this enacted many times over in another time, another place, with beloved Prince Hector helping his tired wife clean a cranky toddler's face. He had been stolen away long before such scenes could happen. She wondered if her mistress was having the same thought for, despite her distance from them, she glimpsed Andromache's features flit from amusement to pensive, a brief glance over Astyanax's head at Eudorus, and a lightning-quick flutter of the nostrils and grim tightening of the mouth that always betrayed her mistress when emotion threatened to overflow.

She smothered a gasp when her hated nemesis, the dog, reentered. He wove circles around his master and mistress in a ceaseless, excited pace. If there was any opportune time to leave, it was now. She hurried over to Andromache and held out her hands to take Astyanax. "He'll be clean as a lily when I'm done with him," she said quickly.

Andromache relinquished him with a laugh, understanding perfectly the girl's sudden desire to leave.

Eudorus watched Iasemi gather the boy to her with clumsy haste and leave in similar manner of flurry and flutter. He craned his neck to follow her, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned. "What is wrong with your girl?" he asked.

Andromache was about to answer when she saw the dog lose interest trying to capture Eudorus' attention and start to trot out through the door after Iasemi. She scurried after him and threw her arms around his neck to hold him back. The dog still managed to drag her a few feet before apparently deciding that he was wanted after all. He gave her face a broad, sloppy lick, surprising her and causing her to lose her hold and tumble into the dusty yard with a thump.

"Ugh, what have you been eating?" she groaned wiping furiously at her cheek. She didn't need to ask the question; the smell already told her that he had been haunting the stables and keeping vigilant behind the oxen.

She glowered up at Eudorus, who stood chuckling in the doorway of the bath. "This dog had best be as warm as Hephaestus' fire this winter."

"He will be, he will be," Eudorus said, smothering any further laughter. "I promise you'll be in love with dogs before the season's done. Although I hope he's not too warm. I should hate to lose you to the dog. I think I'm much more pleasant to curl around at night."

Andromache cocked her head, challenging. "We shall see." She held out her hand. "Help me up and I'll tell you the mystery of my maid."

All was going well, or so she thought, as Eudorus grasped her hands and hauled her effortlessly to her feet. However, not to be thought unhelpful, the dog nosed her in the buttocks, which sent her leaping forward with a squeak.

"He _will_ be worth it," Eudorus said quickly upon seeing her expression grow darker.

"And he will _never_ sleep under the blankets," she retorted, smoothing herself of indignity. "Iasemi is quite afraid of the beast. That's why she hurried off. Be glad I'm only annoyed with him when he gets over-friendly like that."

"That I am, but even had you made some threat about him, I doubt you could have carried it through. You are uncommonly fond of lesser creatures."

"Well, I am no stranger to those who are," she corrected him, "and it's no great burden to tolerate something so harmless."

She smiled, and Eudorus noticed that, again, it was enigmatic and indulgent. It was a look he often saw when they debated the value of the lean and scruffy mongrel. There was nothing condescending about it, although he would have expected it. The bond between a man and dog was one he felt was all too misunderstood and unappreciated. Iasemi certainly didn't comprehend it, and neither did more people than he could count under his roof. But Nephele seemed to understand, completely and gladly.

In fact, he was convinced more than ever that he had been meant to find the wounded creature, bloody and exhausted in a hunter's trap. Only a few tense weeks had passed since he and Nephele had begun to come to an understanding about past and future. When they talked, the words were guarded and slow, very slow, in coming. He feared saying or doing something to make her retreat two steps for every brave one she took. He could see that she was eager, very eager, to leap ahead and outdistance whatever misgivings might be nipping at her heels, but he could also see the calculation of each possible misstep.

The dog had done much to overcome that. As soon as he had appeared with the bleeding unfortunate in his arms, she had helped him mend its wounds, had even harangued Meton to tend to the dog with as much care as he had done for her when she had been injured by Tryphena.

It was perhaps the first indication that her influence went beyond the confines of the kitchen, for Meton had obeyed. Although he had grumbled about using his herbs on a worthless mongrel, he had still obeyed her, and Eudorus had immediately seen why. When faced with a crisis, she tackled it and bore her all to bring it under quick control.

He realized he had been staring at her, lost in his own thoughts, when he saw that Nephele's smile had faded into a familiar, shy discomfort. She hurried past him into the bath hut with some innocuous remark about water getting cold and the sun nearly gone.

He followed behind her, hands already working his tunic over his head. As much as he enjoyed the foot races and sparring and wrestling with the others, he relished nights such as this when he received a soothing bath from soft, methodical hands. As Nephele cleansed him, he found it easy to imagine that he was a prince with the most attentive of wives.

He tossed the garment to the side and drew close to her now. She was studiously bent over the tidy array of oil, sponges, and _strigil_. He slipped an arm around her waist and gently eased her back against him until the curves of their bodies met at nearly every point. She tilted her head against his shoulder and sighed softly when he placed a long, lingering kiss on the curve of her neck and shoulder.

"You smell, my lord," she whispered.

He dropped his hands, startled. "Pleasantly, I hope."

She made a contented sound in her throat. "In an honest way," she said, stepping away to renew her interest in the bath implements. "You got dirty while doing something kind. My son appreciated it, I know."

Her voice had grown softer until he was forced to lean closer again in order to hear her. "Something kind?" he asked. "From that, one would think I'd rather be stomping around a battlefield again."

Nephele turned, the _strigil_ in her hand. She ran her finger along the edge, but he could tell she only did it to busy her hands. She fidgeted with it restlessly.

"What is it?" he asked, her gestures no longer mere distraction, but indicative of genuine troubles.

She shook her head quickly, as if ridding herself of some frivolous thought, but Eudorus was not fooled. She wanted to tell him something, awaited the signal that his ears were open. He gave it to her.

"What is it?" he asked again. "Something obviously troubles you."

She summoned a wan smile. "Much as I should like to think of nothing but giving you a bath, my lord, or chatter about dogs, other things always intrude." She licked her lips slowly, her eyes averted, and he could see she was weighing each word before uttering anything.

"I believe you when you say you have little desire to fight as you once did, but your men… They are getting restless, I fear."

Eudorus waved this away with an impatient groan. "We've already discussed this. I've listened longer than many would, and I think you're worrying needlessly."

He reached around her, picked up the small amphora of oil and moved past her to sit up on the long bench. He poured some oil into his hand and began rubbing it over his arms, chest and shoulders.

Andromache lightly smacked the _strigil_ against her palm and bit the inside of her cheek as she contemplated her options. Yes, they had discussed it before; only two nights past, in fact, and his attempt to ally her fears was as unconvincing then as now. She strongly suspected he was bothered by the growing discontent with his ranks, but she knew there was a line that she dared not cross. It was not her place to step over it and advocate her opinions forcefully. Not yet. She had to earn the privilege, as she had done with Hector through perseverance and not a little guile, mixed with deceit when called upon. In time, Hector had come to believe that he had suddenly, in his own wisdom, seen his wife as sage counsel when in truth she had worked patiently to bring him to that realization. With careful cultivation, Eudorus would be no different.

It was oddly comforting, these similarities. The pain was ebbing, the small joys building and increasing steadily, as if determined to show her that pure happiness was indeed again possible. She still didn't believe it, but the process was proving quite pleasant and the man was a rare specimen of Myrmidon. It made the fact of captivity no less abhorrent to her, but the gods could have chosen so much worse for a lowly mortal. Such was their habit.

Eudorus looked up as he finished slathering the oil on his arm. He paused briefly when he saw Nephele smiling at him, her lips curving gently as her long, graceful fingers continued to play with the _strigil._

"You're right, my lord," she said, advancing. "I have ever been a worrier." She straddled the bench beside him, took a clean rag from her belt, and spread it over her knee. With one hand, she took his arm by the wrist and dragged the _strigil_ down his limb. She wiped the oil, sweat and dirt that clung to the blade onto the rag.

"My lord is tense tonight," she said. "The path of the _strigil_ is narrower than usual." She loosened her hold on his wrist and slipped her hand into his, lacing their fingers together. "You slept poorly last night," she went on.

Eudorus smiled feebly. "I kept you awake, did I?"

"Only briefly, when you kicked me."

Her cajoling smile faded when she saw Eudorus turn away and rubbed at his eyes. "My lord?" She did not stop her task, the _strigil_ continued its scraping circuit along his sun-bronzed limb.

"Nothing," was the tense reply.

Andromache bit her lip, looked around furtively until she saw the small container of oil on the floor by Eudorus' feet. "Ah, you have not yet done your back!" she said brightly. As she reached down to pick it up, he did the same.

He took advantage of their proximity, caught her lips in a kiss that surprised her, but shouldn't have. He wanted to distract her. Why do men think women are that easily fooled? she thought with an inward shake of her head.

She allowed him to believe himself victorious by returning the kiss fervently and ending it with a reluctant murmur. "Your bath first, my lord."

He was about to stroke her cheek when he realized the greasy state of his hand and thought better of it. "Make this the quickest bath you have ever given me." His voice was slightly hoarse, tinged with amorous impatience.

He pivoted on the bench so that his back now faced her, and Andromache poured the oil along his shoulders. It trickled down the plane of his shoulder blades and the length of his spine before she placed her palms flat against his skin and slowly rubbed it across the breadth of his back.

Although her eyes remained focused in front of her, her ears quickly attuned to the faint moans and rumbles as her fingertips swirled around old scars and gently kneaded bulging knots of muscle.

"You should sleep better tonight," she said. "Little wonder you were restless. It feels like there are riverbed stones under your skin." She slid an arm around his chest to give herself leverage as she dug into a stubborn knot with an unrelenting thumb.

Eudorus hissed as a sharp pain stabbed through his back, soon replaced by an acute, throbbing ache. He shifted under her ministrations, but she only clamped her arm around him more tightly and worked her fingers insistently into the muscle.

"Are you trying to kill me, woman?" he groaned.

"I wish you to sleep soundly," came the soft, innocent reply.

"This had nothing to do with last night," he said. He was relieved to feel her torturous pressure lessen somewhat, the strokes still firm but seemingly more intent on persuading the aches to cease rather than intimidating them.

"I haven't dreamed of the war for some time," he began, "but last night…"

"Achilles again?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were replaced by a gasp as the knot finally slid away. "Patroclus," he said, voice heavy, drained. "His death. It's not the first night I've seen that boy fall into the dust."

Andromache was grateful that he did not face her. She closed her eyes, recalled Hector's appearance in their chamber fresh from the field where her husband had unwittingly slain Achilles' beloved Patroclus. That was the first time she had seen true doom in Hector's eyes. Before, ever since his arrival from Sparta with Paris and Helen in tow, his demeanor had shown his fears of impending punishment from man and gods alike, but there was always the spark of belief in victory. Agamemnon was only a king; he could be bested. Achilles was an unnatural enemy riled to the depths of insane grief. There would be no quarter in a fight with the man, and he had been given none.

"You have never spoken of this dream before," she murmured, renewing her attention on Eudorus' scarred and sore flesh.

He glanced over his shoulder. "There was not one thing pleasant about it. One boy died, but he took others with him. Achilles lost his reason, and Troy lost their finest warrior. It was one of the blackest events in a black war. Do you wonder why I leave it to show its head only at night?"

_Say his name!_ Andromache screamed, the cry careening around her mind, heart, and body. How she so desperately wanted to say that name again, aloud; proclaim it to the heavens, even. But that one name coming from her lips would convict her surely as a murderer caught with bloody hands and a body at his feet. Everything she had always felt, and would always feel, for Hector would cling to those two simple syllables.

Eudorus bent his head and rubbed at his eyes again, lack of sleep warring with the parasitic spectre of battles that were never truly over. He was exhausted, and likely to open himself up further to her with a dose of subtle pressure.

Before she could speak, he reached a hand over his shoulder and grasped her fingers. "I'd much rather discuss your worries over Myrmidon discontent than revisit my dreams," he said. "Prince Hector's look of horror is not something I wish to burden you with. It's enough that I can never scrub it from my eyes."

"Eudorus, do you think me delicate as that?"

He pivoted again on the bench so he could see her more easily. "If I ever did, no longer."

"I assure you, I have seen worse."

"We all have, but sometimes…" He sighed and stared across the width of the room, his eyes seeing things that happened on a distant shore. "Sometimes it's not the sight of blood belching out around a man's guts or having some hacked limb hit you as you fight for your life that creates nightmares. Sometimes it's just…seeing the horror in another man's eyes that stays with you more than sheer butchery." He turned to her and shrugged, baffled, before managing a humorless smile. "Tydeus would call me weak."

Andromache wanted to avert her eyes, to find something compulsively interesting in her hands to study and contemplate. All the fatuous reminiscing about Hector paled beside Eudorus' one and only contact with her husband while he still breathed. He had seen Hector as she never had been able, on the battlefield, dealing death and suffering remorse. She knew Hector's character, knew how he acted when surrounded by enemies and brothers-in-arms, but it was a knowledge born of imagination and conviction. She desperately wanted Eudorus to reveal more and burned to question him, but she couldn't. It would be fatal.

Instead, she cupped his cheek in her hand and allowed her eyes to tear. He would not think it suspicious, would think that the tears were for him. And they were. She was finding it startlingly easy and honest to be touched in her heart by Eudorus as she had by Hector.

"You're not weak," she whispered.

He laid his hand over hers, kissed the palm. "Will these hands give me my bath now?"

Andromache sniffed and laughed softly. "You love my hands, though I don't know why. They're chafed and quite ugly."

"As compared to what?"

"A queen's, for one."

"I wouldn't know what to do with a queen if I had one."

He's trying to divert me again, she thought. He's had his attack of confession and is now closing ranks. Very well.

She smiled. "I doubt that very much, Eudorus."

"Have we wasted too much time?"

"For what?"

"The bath. Water must be stone cold by now."

She looked over at the cauldron of water and saw the fire beneath had become a pile of embers. "We shall see," she said, picking up the _strigil_ again and briskly scraping his other arm and his back. He waved away her request to repeat the process on his legs.

"I'd rather we retire early," he told her with an inviting grin.

They rose, and while he upended buckets of the still surprisingly hot water into the tub, she gathered two sponges, coarse and soft, and waited until Eudorus got the water to the depth and temperature he wanted.

"You're as particular as a Babylonian king," she remarked as he tested the water for the third time.

"That was Xuthos," he corrected her.

Andromache couldn't prevent a smile. She had not intended to broach the subject again today, given his reluctance to hear her out earlier, but as long as he mentioned it, how could she let it slip by?

"He was fond of the baths here," she agreed. "I wonder if Agamemnon's are as satisfying."

Eudorus set the bucket down and crawled into the tub. "You don't know that is where he went," he chided. "Xuthos could be serving any other king willing to suffer his envious temper."

She sank to her knees beside the tub, soaked the coarse sponge, and began to scrub his upper back and shoulders. "He was a very discontented fellow," she said mildly. "That might have driven him away in itself, but he was very intent on seeing action again. Agamemnon is sure to give him that, and soon."

"And Xuthos had no opportunities here because I'm forcing my men to be farmers," Eudorus finished for her. "I see where you're going with this."

Andromache shrugged her shoulders. "I merely observe. I'm no stranger to ill tempers. Kallisto and I have to manage them on a daily basis. They are infectious things on fertile ground."

He tilted his head back against the edge of the tub so she could scrub his upper chest and throat. "Menesthius is making a fine living on the sea," he pointed out. "He even enjoys it, and that was something neither he nor I expected. It was born of necessity, and became a good marriage. He calls the sea his wife, I'd wager. What is it? You _want_ to be a mercenary's concubine?"

"No. Achilles gave you this land and you have made a success of it, but that is what troubles me."

"Agamemnon has no designs on my patch of dirt and grass," he assured her. "He would seize my ships, if he could, but Menesthius can outmaneuver anything Agamemnon puts up against him. And Alcimedon has shown an interest in following him to sea—" He stopped and looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

Andromache continued to scrub, feigning ignorance that he had cut himself off in mid-sentence until she felt a suitable period had lapsed. Then she looked at him, startled, the sponge dripping from her fingers.

"My lord?" she asked.

"You wicked woman," he breathed, transparently admiring. "So, want to hear tedious details of my business, do you?"

"If you would so kindly provide," she said suggestively, plunging her hand beneath the water.

Her unseen movements made him arch slightly and emit a husky gasp. "I may have more to tell you," he said, recovering, "if you were in here with me."

She eyed him skeptically, suspecting a trick. It was almost a certainty, but the light spirit had overwhelmed them again after that dark interlude earlier. She shook her head in grudging agreement and stood, her hands already at shoulders of her gown. She shrugged it off easily and looked down at Eudorus, who held out a hand in invitation.

"My lord!"

Andromache gave a sharp cry at the sudden interruption, grabbing her gown and hauling it quickly over her bared breasts. She looked towards the door and saw Menesthius standing there, gleaming like bronze from the kiss of the sun he sailed under. Behind him, half-hidden, was another man. She could not see his whole face, but the shock in his eyes, set beneath an unruly thatch of sea salt-snarled locks, betrayed him as very young and likely a new addition to the pirate's crew.

"Damn you, Menesthius!" Eudorus barked, rising from the water and searching about for his tunic.

Andromache was jolted from her surprise and tossed him the laundered tunic she had brought to the bath earlier. He yanked it on over wet skin and she lamented the rip she heard. It would have to be mended tomorrow.

"Don't stand on ceremony with me, Eudorus," Menesthius joked, holding up a hand. "I can talk to you just as well if you're naked as a baby."

Eudorus' sudden burst of anger, born by surprise and interruption of pleasure, quickly died out. "No, no," he said hastily, stepping from the tub. "Better planning could have helped, is all."

Menesthius peered past Eudorus, where Andromache was still holding her gown tightly to her chin. "Is there a son yet?" he asked. "It seems I might have interrupted something."

Andromache blushed furiously, the heat doing little to prevent her flesh from turning a betraying shade of red. "I shall be sure you're the first to know, Menesthius," she snapped.

The pirate's naturally jovial mood could not be dimmed, although he did furrow his brow slightly and gaze at her longer than she had previously warranted on his prior visits. Although she now stood behind Eudorus, and had always done so when he saw her, Menesthius noticed the shadow wasn't quite so long as it had once been.

"So what have you brought with you this time?" Eudorus said, walking over to his captain.

"Besides this green boy?" Menesthius laughed, stepping aside so Eudorus could see the man behind him. "He says he's a full twenty and seven, but he's numb as a dolt when it comes to actually sailing a ship. The Egyptian captain who he was serving shoved him off on me and I put him to carrying the spoils here rather than navigating the waters. He says he's from Achaea, though that could mean anywhere. He's very vague."

Eudorus glanced at him, but his interest ended there. "You've had your fun, Menesthius," he said. "What have you really brought?"

Andromache knew that a preliminary inventory was being rattled off. She could hear a murmur of numbers and see Menesthius ticking items off on his broad, sun-browned fingers, but it made little sense. Nor did she care.

A pain was welling deep within her, sharp with anger and frigid with fright. She felt like the floor was no longer beneath her feet, yet she could not compel herself to look down.

The hair was a gnarled mess, the cheeks and chin covered with a scraggly, untended beard, but the doltish sailor who stared at her intently with as much shock as she felt herself was undeniably one man.

Paris of Troy had again darkened her door.


	24. Chapter 24

_Thanks for the reviews! They keep me going, especially since RL has been demanding more and more of my time. (These chapters don't write themselves.) I love each and every single one and hope that this next chapter keeps you all interested in the plot I'm (finally) getting around to. :-) I'll say it again: I really appreciate that you gave this rather unique pet pairing of mine a chance.  
_

* * *

**Chapter 24**

The urge to strike him, the screaming impulse to throttle and wound him had passed. Necessity and self-preservation curbed her yearning to fly across the room, half-naked, and pummel the wretch as Hector could never bring himself to do.

Instead, she watched as Eudorus shepherded his captain and the hapless sailor from the bath. He left with a parting promise to her that he would retire to bed later than planned, but then, so would she.

Alone, she fumbled at her gown, her mind oddly more upset that she was now called upon to ready a dinner at a moment's notice for Menesthius' party than that Paris had come and seen her thus exposed. There would be a dozen of them to feed, at least. She had to get to work.

And _he_ would be there, with those eyes so like Hector's staring at her, unfathomable thoughts behind them. She had seen the shock, wondered if it was surprise at seeing her alive, or in the intimate company of another man, or both.

With trembling fingers, she unconsciously arranged her gown into the inoffensive primness of a widow as her gaze remained fixed on the floor.

A shadow fell across the open door and she looked up, half-expecting it to be Paris. No doubt he had slunk away expertly from everyone and thought it a most clever and subtle maneuver.

Iasemi stood rigid in the doorway, her slender hands clasped in front of her so tightly Andromache was certain her fingers would crack like twigs. More surprising was her companion, the much-loathed dog, who stood by her side in curious calm. Iasemi, however, showed no sign of being aware of the canine's presence. Her eyes were as vast as the largest sea and her lips trembled.

"Oh, Mistress," she whispered, dangerously close to tears. "What will happen to us now?"

Iasemi's barely-leashed hysteria snapped Andromache from her stupor. She hastened over to the girl and gripped her upper arms firmly, maternally.

"Hush now," she said, fighting to keep her own voice calm. "Where's my son?"

"Sleeping."

"Did Paris see you?"

Iasemi shook her head. "I don't think so. I nearly crossed his path, but Menesthius ordered him off in a different direction before he could recognize me. If he even knows who I am," she added.

Andromache sighed. "I think it's a safe assumption that he looked at you at least once in the past. Let's hope his memory is faulty on that count. I do not want him to corner you. Now go back to my boy and stay with him the rest of the night." She paused, thought rapidly. "Where is he?"

"Your chamber, on the floor pallet. I was going to nap beside him."

"Do that, but elsewhere. He may try to skulk about and now that he knows my station in this household, common sense would lead him to any place I might rest my head. I do not want him to find my son."

Iasemi's eyes widened impossibly larger. "Oh, you cannot think he'd—"

Andromache held up a hand to stave off the vile thought from being uttered. "I don't know what he will do, why he's here, _how._ It is some unnatural magic that guides him, protects him. And, of course, there is that woman. Who knows what part she's playing in all this. She must not be satisfied that she escaped with her life and her freedom."

Seeing that she was beginning to frighten Iasemi more with her musings, she gently shoved her towards the door. "Go, and keep him hidden. Take him to Kallisto's quarters, if need be. She will be as busy as I tonight. If she fumes, tell her that he's fussing and it pleases me to have him in her room instead. She can fight me in the kitchen about it."

This prompted a reluctant smile from the girl and she hurried off, her eyes constantly searching about her. The burden on her now was great, the life of Astyanax in her hands for what would be a tense, wakeful night.

What Andromache had mused aloud – nothing explicit yet implying that Paris might have evil designs on his nephew – shook Iasemi to her bones. She did not want to believe it, wanted to call it a gross overreaction. The princes Paris and Hector had been steadfast to each other; Hector more so, naturally, but Paris had displayed much love and devotion when they both basked in the affections of King Priam. With such brotherly harmony, Paris could not possibly be contemplating harm to befall Astyanax.

Destroy his brother's only child? It was unthinkable, yet wholly probable. The girl who tended a baby's bath and soiled laundry could see no threat; the girl who had spent many years in palace shadows as a slave around proud women and envious men knew that an extra heir rarely led an untroubled life. The Eastern kingdoms were bursting with such tales.

With renewed purpose, driven by a sweating fear, Iasemi flitted across the yard, alert and ready to change her path at first sight of Paris. The dog kept to her heels, loping along in cheerful curiosity. When she noticed she had acquired a companion, she began to shoo him away from her until she realized the task ahead of her would not suffer if there were two pairs of watchful eyes and ears. She did not pet him, but she gave a resigned sigh, felt courage surge within her, and the two of them continued on together.

It wasn't until she reached Andromache's and Eudorus' chamber, lungs bursting, that she realized she had been holding her breath. Gasps heaved from her throat as she scurried about, grabbing a blanket, a gourd rattle, and, finally, the sleeping Astyanax himself.

Despite her care, he was jostled awake and looked up at her in confusion through bleary eyes.

"Will you be good tonight?" Iasemi asked him. "No crying, and try not to be so conspicuously like your father. There is one person here tonight who, I fear, will see it straightway."

She looked down into the laughing brown eyes of Hector and realized that all would eventually be revealed. Some things were impossible to keep hidden.

The master will find out, she thought. It's now only a matter of when.

* * *

Kallisto looked askance at the woman beside her who had been fumbling at and dropping things all evening. An apple now flew from her fingers and rolled across the stone floor to the hearth.

"Nephele, I think you should rest for awhile," she said. "You've just ruined that fruit, and it wasn't altogether good to begin with."

Andromache sighed and ran a floured hand through her hair, unmindful of the mess she was making of herself. "You're right, of course, but I can't."

"This is no large feast, as it was for Agamemnon," Kallisto said, looking around them. Only three other women worked over kettle and knife, their motions very unhurried compared to Nephele's clumsy haste. "We have it well in hand. Go rest, or at least ready yourself for dinner. You are far from presentable, my girl."

Andromache looked down at her greasy, flour-caked hands. "I don't think he'll want me there tonight," she demurred. "Look at what I have done to myself. Put me at the table, and Menesthius will be wearing the dinner."

Kallisto snickered brusquely. "Somehow I think the food would find its way into his mouth anyway. It's too large a target to miss."

Andromache found herself smiling, the truth of Kallisto's comment briefly banishing the leaden thoughts of Paris that had tormented her all evening. Astyanax was safely hidden away, Iasemi watching the door into Kallisto's quarters with the rigid attentiveness of a hungry hawk. She still did not dare to look in on her son for fear of being observed, but she tried to comfort herself with thoughts of her vigilant handmaid protecting her tiny, defenseless king.

How I should be there instead, she fumed silently, feeling as helpless as a baby herself.

Andromache jumped when she felt a wiry hand laid squarely on her stomach.

"Kallisto!" she exclaimed, her own hand flying to the old woman's.

"You're not with babe," Kallisto stated after several prods of her fingers into the soft flesh of her stomach. "I was certain something was making you skittish as a lamb."

Andromache had recovered from the shock of having hands laid upon her so impudently. "Part of me hopes I am, just to prove you wrong." She took Kallisto by the wrist and gently removed the offending hand.

Kallisto, far from being insulted, instead smiled. "I rarely am, but one day I hope to be. At least in this matter."

Andromache felt an unwelcome flush tingeing her neck and cheeks. "Eudorus has two children and he loves them tolerably well. He doesn't need one from me."

"You must be quite tired to say such a thing, let alone think it," Kallisto snapped good-naturedly. "But this isn't the time for me to advocate for his affections. Go rest." Her sharp features melted, though slightly, into pleading concern. "Here, I will take you to your girl, who's no doubt already made a wreck of what little space I call my own." The last part was muttered darkly.

"You could have always said no," Andromache reminded her teasingly.

"You said he was fussing senselessly, so what else could I do? A change of bed will do him good. He'll have to learn how to sleep in all manner of ways when he becomes a warrior."

She took Andromache by the arm and they left the kitchen together. Andromache moved reluctantly, sleepily. Her body screamed out for rest. She was loathing Menesthius' arrival as much as Paris'. Had the night passed as it began, she and Eudorus would have sated each other in the bath and collapsed into bed in heavy bliss. That peace had been shattered.

They had progressed halfway across the central yard when Andromache stopped. The danger of being accosted by Paris was increasing. She didn't want Kallisto to be there when it happened. "I forgot I needed to ask Charis about the dye. She was nearly out—"

"She won't be needing to worry about it long," Kallisto said, her hand still on Andromache's wrist and showing no sign of releasing it. "It's likely Menesthius brought more with him today."

"All the same, I told her I would discuss it with her and see what I could do." She watched Kallisto with a regretful calm, hoping the stubborn woman would be persuaded to leave her and return to her kitchen. Although Andromache had yet to see any glimpse of Paris – and her eyes had never stopped searching the shadows and corners surrounding them – she sensed that if she allowed Kallisto to continue leading her, Paris would scent her trail like a hungry dog.

Kallisto's hand loosened and Andromache gently slipped out of the woman's well-meaning bond. "Very well. I can see you won't be persuaded otherwise."

"You would be disappointed in me if I took rest too eagerly," Andromache said, forcing a smile.

"That I would," Kallisto grudgingly agreed.

Before Andromache could start towards Charis' workshop, Kallisto looked over Andromache's shoulder and threw up a hand in disbelief. "Great gods, they're still unloading everything. I would wager all my best kettles that more of it belongs to Agamemnon than is prudent."

Andromache turned to see a scattered procession of Menesthius' men, each with a crate or sack of varying size, wending its way among the various outbuildings. She found herself staring at the riches that were flowing under Eudorus' roof. A familiar knot of fear twisted heavily in her stomach and she glanced at Kallisto in alarm.

"I see you are of the same mind."

Andromache was startled to see the dark anxiety that creased her already considerably wrinkled face. "Oh, Kallisto," she breathed, understanding completely. "No good can come of this. We're becoming a jewel waiting to be snatched up."

"I blame Menesthius," Kallisto said bluntly, unhesitating. "He comes with all manner of things, little by little, then a little more. Each time there's more." She cocked her head. "You have not noticed this vulnerability of ours until now? Then no wonder Eudorus hasn't yet stemmed the tide."

"He's an observant man. He doesn't need my opinion when he has yours, and I'm sure you've given it to him often."

"Oh, rot! The pleasure of irking Agamemnon has been infectious," Kallisto insisted, "and if there's one word to describe Menesthius, it's infectious." She sighed. "The concubine need not serve only one purpose, Nephele. Use _all_ of your advantages!"

"I like this no better than you, Kallisto!" Andromache snapped. Visions of an invading army summoned to the foothills of Pthia tormented her. They would come with the same purpose, the same dreams of conquest, as they had done to golden Troy. Despite Agamemnon's own rumored troubles within his own house, he still held immense power and sway over the other warrior-kings of Achaea. If he called them to arms, they would most likely come. He was the conqueror of Troy and must be obeyed.

He had to be defanged, made an irrelevant force. Doing it through military means was nearly impossible. Stealing his shipments was too slow and only stoked his ire. No, something more desperate and permanent had to be done, but she would not voice such thoughts aloud. They carried tremendous danger, immense consequences.

"Xuthos is gone, as are a few others," she went on. "I have marked that, Kallisto, worried about it. If it is as I fear, if we are assailed by Agamemnon or anyone else, then we shall need all our fighting men."

She stood silent, watching Menesthius' men unload themselves of their burdens. From the corner of her eye, she caught Kallisto looking at her with something akin to satisfaction.

"'Our fighting men'," Kallisto repeated. "I would have never expected to hear you refer to them like that."

Andromache bristled. "I would rather I had never laid eyes upon their like. Know that well, my friend."

The old woman's pleased expression did not dim. "But what other future is there for you, correct? You are tied to the Myrmidons, like it or no."

"That I am." She turned her attention back to the bearers. The first lot was retreating, and a second group now took its place, their arms and shoulders similarly loaded. All of them looked ragged and unkempt from the relentless pace Menesthius had forcibly maintained since seizing their ship.

They all look like castaways, Andromache thought. The type of fish merciful fishermen toss back into the water. Any one of them could be Paris from this distance.

Then one of them looked up from an intense scrutiny of the small casket in his arms. He turned and began walking with casual precision towards where she and Kallisto stood.

Andromache felt her tongue go dry, sitting painfully in her mouth before ever being called upon to speak.

"Oh ho, he is quite the handsome one," Kallisto chuckled. "Even under that rat's nest on his face, I can see it."

"I'm sure he's heard that many a time," Andromache said softly, the words coming thick and repulsive to her lips. She firmly shoved aside the nausea that threatened to consume her. "I would never have thought you one to appreciate the young bulls, Kallisto," she said, forcing a brighter tone.

"Appreciate, yes," Kallisto said, her eyes not leaving the taut and long-limbed form that approached them. "I simply can't tolerate their young, thick-headed ways in close quarters. I've raised a couple myself and it's something I don't want to experience again. Eudorus wasn't the worst of the lot, but that's still no compliment."

Paris drew up to them, the casket cradled in his arms. He had apparently heard Kallisto's comment, because he smiled and said, "How fortunate! I discover I have the mother _and_ the wife here to help me."

Andromache stared at him levelly. "We are neither, but what is it you need?"

"This is quite heavy," he replied, hefting the casket. From within came the sound of clinking metal. "I think it should be locked up immediately and I'm hoping one of you can lead me there."

"Come along, young man," Kallisto said, gesturing with what Andromache thought was unseemly eagerness. "I'll take you there directly."

"And leave those girls to the kitchen?" Andromache asked her with feigned surprise. "They shall make a disaster of it."

"Ah, you're quite right." Kallisto's tone of regret was forced, the exchange having been merely for amusement. Andromache suspected the old woman would rather stir a pot than a young man's desires.

Kallisto turned towards her kitchen, her hands clasped before her, the playful expression now replaced with her usual stolid mask. "Remember what I told you," she said. "Take your rest and decide how you'll go about using your talents."

"Ever the taskmaster you are, Kallisto."

Any remnant of cheer disappeared. "I trust you, Nephele."

Andromache prayed she revealed nothing of the chill that shot through her bones at Kallisto's words. There was no accusation behind them, no indication that she knew anything of the woman before her beyond what she had believed mere minutes earlier. Kallisto was inviting her to wield what power she may over the man she called her son, wield it in a way that would preserve the peace and security they now so tenuously enjoyed. And she did so because she believed this woman who shared Eudorus' bed was not only capable of the task, but worthy and honorable.

The import of this realization rendered Andromache mute, and when she did not speak Kallisto nodded in sharp satisfaction that the mission had been accepted.

They watched the old woman walk away and Paris, from his position behind Andromache, murmured, "I did not expect to find you like this."

Andromache thought she detected a note of disbelief and awe, rather than recrimination. "Nor did I," she replied. "I scarcely know how to begin to describe it."

Paris looked down at the casket again, suggesting to any observers around them that any words he spoke were of the goods held in hand. "We must meet alone," he said. "I did not expect to find you here, but now that I have—"

"I don't believe you," she said flatly, turning. "You found me by chance amongst thousands of villages? You _happened_ to be captured by Menesthius, of all men? I'm no fool."

Paris' eyes widened and he struggled to find his tongue. "I—I swear to you," he said. "This is all happening by a will stronger than ours. I know you would prefer never to have seen me again. I deserve your scorn. Had I known you were here, I would have still come…to rescue you."

Andromache's lips thinned as she curtly gestured for him to follow her. Despite her lingering desire to beat him as Menelaus had done, she leashed her anger and recognized that a civil talk was not amiss. "The casket will go to the treasury. I'll open it there and do a quick inventory. As you say, it probably should be locked away."

Paris fell into step behind her, and it was no act that he twisted his neck this way and that in a bid to glimpse as much as he could of the people and buildings surrounding him. The size impressed him; it was much larger than he had anticipated. Menesthius had bragged that his friend Eudorus had created a jewel in the hills from his loot alone, but Menesthius was a friendly, boastful man. Paris had not been inclined to believe him. Yet the charismatic pirate had been correct: the fields were large and worked by many slaves, the buildings were either transitioning from huts or were already secure structures, and there was a distinct military presence. This was no simple farming village ruled by a wartime hero, but a nascent kingdom. It had potential glory emblazoned on the tight and efficient manner in which everyone worked.

I need not look far to discover the source of such industry, he thought, his eyes on Andromache's back. She will always be Hector's wife, ruling a palace with a firm hand and eliciting the best work from those around her. She will always be the woman my brother married.

He repeated it again, the shock of seeing her in the bath with the Myrmidon still lingering. He remembered Helen's anger and envy his final night in Egypt, her sarcastic assertion that Andromache would never fail Hector, that she would always be Troy's virtuous and beloved princess.

Were she here, Paris thought sadly, Helen would surrender to her worst impulses, point at her fallen sister, and crow that Hector's faith had been misplaced, that _all_ of Troy had been duped. Andromache had not preferred death before dishonor, People of Troy! A Myrmidon butcher had been found as deserving of her body as the greatest prince Troy had ever born! Be ashamed of your beloved princess!

Paris shunted aside the bitter echo of his wife's imagined words. They would not stiffen his resolve to see this mission through. He undertook this plot to rid the world and Troy of Agamemnon so that he and Helen might rule. When he was captured and realized that he would be coming into a den of Myrmidons, his conscience was pricked by the prospect of perhaps finding Andromache and Troy's rightful king.

That had now come to pass, but the dilemma did not crush him as it would have in the past. There was no reason why he could not rescue Andromache and Astyanax, thereby fulfilling his vow to Hector, and still rule Troy. It was possible. Indeed it was.

His sense of Andromache's station was reinforced when they reached the treasury, a large structure that seemed a cobbled affair as if it had been enlarged as its contents grew, rather than a vast receptacle built with an eye towards great deposits. Two men stood guard and deferred to Andromache when she bid them unlock the door.

The door swung wide and one of the guards handed Andromache a small torch, for the room was windowless and dusk was hovering. Paris followed her inside and the guards shut the door behind them.

Hector's beloved brother looked into the eyes of Hector's widow and saw a tempest of wary trust, simmering rage, and baffled surprise. He spoke the first thing that came to his lips, something that should have put her at ease, would have put any mother at ease.

But Andromache's eyes hardened – in fear, in fury, in eerie satisfaction that some conviction he had no knowledge of had born fruit.

In Paris' confusion, he thought she had not heard him correctly, so he repeated it.

"Where is Astyanax?"


	25. Chapter 25

_Note: As I was rereading the past Paris chapters while I wrote this one, I realized that I'm having him come to Greece on a mission to kill Agamemnon when, in Chapter 16, Paris is completely under the impression that Agamemnon is dead, and nothing happened in the intervening time to change that notion. Can you say "omg, u sucky author!"? I offer no excuses, and now wonder if such a glaring error might have caused some people to stop reading entirely. If so, I regret that. I unconsciously overlaid Andromache's knowledge on Paris' because I wanted them to begin plotting together from the same page._

_Oh dear. (blushes) Well, I'll offer this: In some unwritten scene between Chapters 16 & 22, Paris has learned that Agamemnon is NOT dead. Perhaps some trader came to Egypt from Greece and gossip worked its way from marketplace to palace that the king Paris thought he killed is alive and well. This "proof" of Paris' ineptitude turned Rameses away from all thought of helping him get Troy back, and so Paris feels that it will be up to his own devices, and his alone, to get what he wants. Hence, his decision to leave Egypt and go to Greece to kill Agamemnon._

_There shouldn't be too many chapters left. Perhaps 5 more or so, and I will try to get them written quickly. ("Hah!" I can hear you all say.) If it helps, I managed to write two-thirds of this chapter in 2 days. It's just the first third that took me over 2 months. I think I'm getting WORSE as an author. :-\ Paris was actually fun to write this time around. I guess I just have to get him away from Helen to make him interesting (to me, at least). Too bad I can't have her accidentally step on a land mine somewhere and remove her completely...  
_

* * *

**Chapter 25**

"Where is Astyanax?"

The answering chill, hard glare from Andromache's large eyes sent Paris scrambling to reassure her. "I feared for him," he added. "Seeing those black sails bear your both away cut me as much as Hector's death. I would have done anything to save you."

As he spoke, the words tumbling from his lips like a full brook in spring, he felt the overwhelming need to turn that icy mask into something resembling welcome. This reunion with Andromache, though unexpected and awkward, had filled him with some hope that his appearance would be greeted with excitement, wonder, and relief.

But all he could see was suspicion, all he heard was his own voice sounding pitifully small and weak against Andromache's stony refusal to put him at ease.

"I—" he began again, only to have the words on his tongue disappear into the ether when Andromache opened her mouth to speak.

"To your question: my son is here," she said. "He is well."

Paris thought quickly. "Then no one knows…"

"I do, Paris. I do. And I know what he means to you."

There was no sympathy in Andromache's pitilessly short answers, and Paris immediately understood. If the omnipresent air of distrust and intrigue of Rameses' palace had taught him anything, it was to detect real intent behind someone's words. Horror filled him as he realized Andromache was not looking upon him as a returning wanderer and Hector's brother, but as a man seeking to eliminate a rival.

"You're mad to think so of me!" he blurted. "Well and truly mad!"

Andromache slashed a hand through the air with a hissed command to be silent. She glanced at the door and Paris saw that the cold hatred had given way to apprehension at the threat of discovery.

"I did not come to find you," he whispered, surprising himself at the calm, measured tone despite the lingering horror at his suspected motives. "I didn't know you were here, but the pleasure that I have is of one innocent of whatever you may suspect of me."

Andromache's lips thinned in severe contemplation, her gaze unwavering. He returned it levelly and felt a conflicting wave of guilt and triumph wash over him when she averted her eyes again, this time as doubt creased her brow.

_She would have never believed such things of me if I had not given her cause_, he thought miserably. _When has she ever known me to do anything for anyone other than myself or Helen?_

"Hector, he—" Paris said. Andromache looked up in keen, wary curiosity, but she made no sign of interrupting him. He forged ahead.

"Hector would see you safely out of here. I would do that for him."

Andromache's reaction again surprised him. "It is not nearly as simple as running away," she said. "Not nearly as simple as saying, 'The throne is my son's, and he shall have it.' I imagined both once, even believed them, but—"

"But?" Paris demanded, incredulous. "You cannot have despaired of either!"

When Andromache didn't immediately reply or protest that she indeed wanted to flee her prison, Paris felt his shock grip him utterly. It was abundantly clear and her expression left no doubt: were she to leave, it would be under protest. What – who – could persuade her that to stay was madness? He could only think of one, and he would use it.

"Hector—"

"Don't speak to me of Hector!" she snapped. "Has _he_ counseled you every night since Troy burned?" She clasped her hands over her heart. "He still dwells here and shall never leave. He would see me happy after all those miserable days and nights of being a fugitive, a captive of the men whose leader killed him and dragged him through the dust. He guided me until I made my peace with my situation."

Paris did not believe himself capable of being further stunned, but he was. He was offering her a gift, and she was refusing it! He was unsure whether to test her wits or his own to see who was hallucinating.

"Peace? Then what did I see today at bath-side?" he challenged. "You cannot be content! Tell me if I'm wrong, but I saw a concubine eager to please because she has no other course."

The stinging rebuke came, but not in words. The small room resounded with a sharp sound, followed by another no less forceful, and Paris' face ached with sudden, searing pain.

* * *

Andromache knew satisfaction, had experienced it in many forms, but she struggled to recall if she had ever felt such fulfillment from striking someone. A surly maid had once felt her hand, a girl who she had overheard spinning lies about Hector. That had been years ago, but the memory was still fresh, the pain in her hand a shameful remembrance that she had lost her temper with one lesser than herself.

Now, however, her stinging palm and throbbing knuckles was a pleasure she wanted to bottle and savor over many years to come. The flush of it consumed her and when it began to quickly ebb, she strove to keep it alive just a little longer. There was so much to say, so many hurting and hurtful words that clambered about her head.

"How dare you!" she spat. "You speak to _me_ of concubines, of bath-side trysts? I had a choice, and I made it!" Upon Paris' expression of surprised confusion, she continued relentlessly.

"Eudorus asked me if I would lay with him. He used no ruses, told no lies or made false promises. There was no spark of war when I told him yes, no outraged husband. No oaths were violated. Can you say the same for yourself?"

Andromache swallowed with great difficulty. The trial of keeping her voice hushed when she wanted to scream and rage had strained her throat raw. The pain grew to a dry strangle, which quickly escalated into a cough. She clasped her hands to her mouth, thought she was going to retch. Her stomach was knotted and churned violently. Her thoughts were poisonous, her hatred of him a villainous bile that she felt corroding her with every passing second. When he was far away, in parts unknown, it had been comforting to despise him with the white-hot hatred of an immortal.

Yet why, now that she had him opposite her as she had often prayed for, did it feel so futile, the pleasure only fleeting?

She remembered Tryphena, how the girl had proudly professed the comfort her hatred of Eudorus gave her. It had ultimately destroyed her, leading to a lightly-mourned death in the hot, dry dust. There was no way Andromache could know exactly how Tryphena had felt, but she suspected the rage she had now set loose from its dam was a near twin. She could see the dark pit towards which she had blindly leaped, and her instinct was to scramble backwards. In this moment, she knew not what she was. Her mind was awhirl with monstrous thoughts and for the first time in a long while, she did not trust her judgment. Even on the night she had agreed to Eudorus' plea, she had felt secure in her response, her logic. Such was not the case now.

The room had grown too close, the air foul and stifling. All about her was the smell of wealth, an alluring scent to a grossly devious king not so far away. She wanted to protect it at the same time that she wanted to flee. It would bring misery and strife, something of which she had suffered all too much. She could not bear it; it was all too sudden, too heavy to comprehend.

She turned to leave, wishing she had not secluded herself with him so quickly. _I thought I could see this through calmly. As I used to do, as a queen would do…_

_And I've failed that. With Paris, of all irritants._

She bristled when she felt a hand restrain her. The palm was warm, the fingers firm with nary a tremor as they encircled her upper arm.

"Andromache."

Paris' voice was rich with self-composure and the steady hand stayed her from wrenching herself from his grip. Both voice and hand joined to beg her silently to remain and listen further, an entreaty so convincing that she acquiesced.

She looked into his eyes and was surprised to see something she never thought would ever grace the face of Hector's wayward brother: wisdom, experience. But also lingering there was the glint of old, of plans and dreams.

"Would you like to know why I _am_ here?" he asked softly.

She found herself nodding slowly.

"Helen is still in Egypt," he informed her, lowering his voice still further. "I suspect she will not remain there long. Our welcome has long expired, I fear. For nearly as long as you have been here, we were in Pharaoh's palace, waiting for his promise of aid to retake Troy to become reality."

"It never came, then, if you're here now."

Paris smiled, a slight curve of the lips that held more sadness than Andromache would have expected. "You're correct, dear sister. When it reached my ears that Agamemnon was not dead, Rameses thought me a fool and dragged his heels further. I take it upon myself to remove the one Mycenaean stone holding up the occupation of my, our, home."

Silence reigned briefly before Andromache's mouth fell open in numb realization. "You can't mean to do it! You will be killed!"

Paris' wry smile deepened. "You should be glad of that outcome, if you still believe I am here to harm my nephew."

Andromache hesitated, but then shook her head in dismissal. "No, I'm beginning to believe your appearance here is purely accidental. Have you even a plan to carry this out? Do you know anything of Agamemnon's palace and situation there?"

"No. I was intending to insinuate myself and bide my time, but then Menesthius swooped down upon our ship and I was…diverted here. For good reason, it seems. You may think it accidental, but I have long since ceased thinking anything is random."

"Has one of the gods been dogging your footsteps?" Andromache muttered.

"Sorry?"

Andromache waved the thought away. "Nothing. In my more strained moments, it just seems like Artemis has been hovering around me. The night we left Troy, she sat down beside me and told me that we would meet again, and the night I first shared Eudorus' bed, the moon shone far too brightly. She was there, I am sure of it." She made an impatient sound. "You must think me mad from what you've seen and heard today."

"Not at all. Envious, perhaps. It would have helped me if I had felt my actions sanctioned by the gods. When I set out from Egypt, I feared I had already wasted too much time."

"It is not like you to feel doubt," Andromache mused wonderingly. "You've always been so bold and rash. What of Helen?"

"What of her? She is as you remember her."

"Oh." The word, softly uttered, hung between them with each one knowing what feelings clung to it. "Then you still do all this for her?"

Paris' dry, humorless smile returned. "We had an agreement. She wanted to return to Troy, as did I. We tried her method, but it failed. Pharaoh's affections soon turned elsewhere."

Andromache did not know how to respond. Paris had spoken of his wife's whoredom so blandly, as if it were an item on an inventory list, that she briefly wondered if this was the same infatuated man she had last seen so long ago.

"What happened in Egypt, Paris?" she asked, feeling honest sorrow pierce her heart. "You have changed so much, you're nigh unrecognizable."

"For the better, I hope." He grinned, but his mood quickly passed and became more grim. "Fear of one's life tends to do that, I suspect. There are too many dark corridors in Pharaoh's palace. I remember many in Father's, but not nearly as sinister. If any part of that house remains, I shall rebuild and make it as open and bright as I can. I've had enough of being hunted and stalked from the shadows."

"Surely if Pharaoh had ever had ill intentions, he would have seen them though," Andromache said. "He knew who you were and could have dispatched you with a knife or packed you on a ship to Agamemnon as an offering. He did neither, so—"

"—so I was worth nothing in his mind," Paris finished for her. "You're as clever as I remember. Rameses is still a strong man and a stronger king, but he was recovering from a bloody draw with the Hittites and I believe him content to rest for some time yet. Soiling his hands with our blood and watching his treasury vanish into the sands of our battlefields don't interest him. He got what he wanted from us."

"Helen." Andromache settled her hand over his, which still held her arm. "I am so very sorry, Paris."

"I think you really mean that." When Andromache nodded, he smiled again. "I did plan to do right while in Egypt, sister. I even succeeded to some measure. Queen Nefertari saw something within me, even encouraged me to think like a king. She was fighting death at the time, but still endured an audience with me."

"It is well that you had some encouragement," Andromache told him honestly. "You would not have received it from me."

"And I would not have held it against you. I should have rescued you that day on the beach. I wanted to. Something held me back."

Andromache felt Helen's name again creep onto her tongue, but she insistently bit it back. She had no doubt that the Spartan queen had harnessed Paris' impulse to burst out of hiding, and perhaps it had been the wisest decision that woman had ever, and would ever, make. None of them would still be drawing breath had Paris been allowed to act unchecked. It was a vicious thing to understand, but understand it Andromache did, and she felt a sharp spasm in her breast that, had Paris revealed himself, Eudorus would have likely slain Astyanax that day. He would have wasted no time with threats, and he would have forever been a bloody conqueror in her eyes.

"Well, I must thank you for that," she said tightly, "whatever did stay you. Life here has been hard and troubling, I won't deny it, but…"

She felt herself at a loss for words as the spectre of Eudorus hung upon the last of her unfinished sentence. She spared Paris an uncertain look. When they had first entered this room, she would not have dared express her feelings about Eudorus, and when Paris had snidely insinuated that she was a defeated concubine, she had hurled a defense back in his face. Now, a reassuring calm had settled over the conversation and they had become two rational equals. _Have I been so ridiculous,_ she thought,_ or was this something that needed to be thrashed out and left bloody and spent on the floor before the next step could be taken?_

Paris was watching her patiently, interest alight in his eyes. "You said you had found peace," he prompted, "before I insulted you and earned that deserved slap."

She marveled that he could still make light of matters despite the very visible evidence that he had suffered in the intervening months. They had both lived day-to-day under crippling pressures: he had walked about in the light of day as nothing but Paris of Troy and watched and waited for when a bored pharaoh would give the quiet order to dispense with him, and she had guarded every word and utterance, morning and night, to keep her true identity forever hidden. Here, now, she could see the weary lines beginning to form on his brow and near his eyes. She even thought she glimpsed a scattering of silver hair among his sea-gnarled locks. There were many days when she caught her reflection in a bucket of water or a piece of polished metal and saw the same subtle ravages on her own features. However, it made her no less loved. Paris apparently had suffered a withdrawal of affection and his bond with Helen had become one of convenience, an "agreement" as he called it.

"Yes, peace," she said, gathering up her scattered thoughts. "If you linger here, I think you will soon see what I mean."

"If you mean your Myrmidon lord, and will I see his finer qualities, I cannot promise that," Paris told her. "I will be slipping away from here and traveling to Mycenae as soon as possible. I've heard that Agamemnon was once here. Tell me about him. What did you learn?"

Andromache looked at him uncertainly. "I can see you mean to carry out this plan of yours. And I won't lie: I have had the same thoughts myself. He does intend to seize this place, I'm certain of it. Menesthius' robberies have long tested his endurance."

"He must have a weakness," Paris insisted. "Internal strife of some sort?"

"He believes himself invincible," Andromache said with unfettered sarcasm. "I was regaled with the tale of him being spared from Briseis' wound. He may have acquired some recklessness since then. But I think the vulnerable part of his armor is his wife."

Paris grinned again. "Gossip is rampant, even in these rustic hills."

"Indeed." Andromache returned his smile. "If you ever succeed, it will be through Klytemnestra. There are rumors she has sought comfort elsewhere, with a man who thinks of things other than wealth and conquest. The entire family is estranged from one another, divided into camps and factions. It is a cracked vessel waiting to be knocked to the floor and the shards swept away."

As she had spoken, Paris' eyes widened and his beard could not disguise the familiar excitement of old. He swept Andromache into a bone-crushing embrace and planted an exuberant kiss on her cheek.

"You insane boy!" she gasped, returning the hug quickly before she insistently pushed herself away.

Paris held her at arm's length, the joy on his face writ bright. "You will see me again soon, sister. Agamemnon's death will not automatically give Troy to us, but it will at least spare your home here. We may have need of all this treasure. Keep it safe for us."

"My skirts aren't nearly large enough!" she said. "You think I can just steal it to fund an army to retake Troy?"

"Of course not," Paris said with exaggerated patience.

"You're talking like a madman. What if Agamemnon discovers who you are? And what if Eudorus discovers _me?_ I will be of no use to you. Kallisto will have me under her watch every hour of the day."

"Do you think Eudorus would want a stake in Troy?" he asked.

Andromache shook her head, confused. "Yes. No! He has what he wants!" She paused and breathed deeply, her thoughts untangling.

"It is Menesthius who would want to move on Troy should Agamemnon be removed," she said. "He has the fleet, the men, the wealth, the daring. The other Myrmidon captains in Achilles' army admire him. They would follow him should he suggest they advance on Troy."

"Would Eudorus agree to that? It's he whom Menesthius serves, such as it is."

"I—I don't know."

"Would he fight for _you_?"

A small, unexpected laugh escaped her. "You must be joking. He has affection for me, and I for him, but taking up arms? Reclaiming a city for the enemy he so recently fought? I would have to confess who I am! You _are_ mad."

"Mercenaries have no allegiance to former ties once the fee has been paid. And you have a hold on his heart. Stronger than gold, Andromache."

Andromache stared at him, then shook her head. "It would be a betrayal! And Astyanax would be in immediate danger." She brought a hand to her forehead, flustered.

"That will be our final resort," Paris said, "but we must keep that option available to us. Hide Astyanax away first, if you must. Send him away with Iasemi into the hills. But focus instead on Menesthius. Work on his ambitions."

Andromache smiled grimly. "I think that will be the bigger sacrifice of the two options. I do not like the man." She sighed. "You go to Mycenae and don't concern yourself with matters here. I'll have them well in hand. You're making me believe things I shouldn't even entertain, Paris."

Paris' joy had become muted upon her refusal to dash headlong into his scheme, but he gave her an encouraging grin at her relenting assurance. He opened the heavy door and bounded from the treasury with a light grace.

The guard craned his neck to look into the room, his curiosity at the length of their seclusion inside undisguised. Andromache shrugged and affected a bored air as she passed him.

"Some people insist on telling you every detail of their voyage!" she said. "I hadn't the heart to refuse!"

* * *

_OK, so next chapter: Looks like Andromache will have to feel Menesthius out about his ambitions and get him in an agreeable frame of mind about any possible ventures. And there'll be some Eudorus, I promise! I was thinking of having he and Paris confront each other in this chapter or the next, but that's just a little too much drama all at once. :-) I hope you've enjoyed this chapter. "Reader Traffic" tells me I have readers all around the world! Hello, Singapore! Hello, Argentina! Hello, Estonia! (I've been to Tallinn!) That thrills me more than you can imagine.  
_


	26. Chapter 26

Thanks so much for reviewing and thanks to all you silent readers, too! I hope I've delivered the chapter in good time. Good news: I seriously think I can get this done in 4 more chapters, or less. I've got a bit of middle part to fill, but I already know how I'm going to end it and have synopsized it meticulously. That's more than half the battle, right? :-)

Enjoy!

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**Chapter 26**

"It's good to see that Agamemnon still hasn't happened across you yet, Menesthius," Eudorus said, clasping his old comrade tightly and thumping him soundly on the back. He held him out at arm's length and grinned. "Your skin could be used for leather. That salt air and sun is curing you into a tough piece of meat."

Menesthius scratched at his head, as if in doubt that the salt had been washed from his lank hair in the bath only hours before. "I wouldn't have thought, more than a year ago, that I would find the sea a beautiful mistress, but she has bewitched me completely." He looked around the room, the large dining hall that was beginning to churn with busy slaves on individual missions to ready for that night's dinner.

"Come," Eudorus said, putting an arm around him and steering him towards the door. "This is no place to discuss business. Not with no food or wine to enjoy while we do so."

They exited, and Eudorus caught sight of Iasemi heading towards the kitchens with a small bushel across her back. He captured her attention with a quick gesture. "Bring some wine to my chamber, and some bread if you can," he told her.

When the girl nodded and continued on her way, Menesthius turned to Eudorus. "You become a finer and fancier lord each time I see you. You're as adept at the orders as a palace eunuch."

"I'll sew that mouth of yours shut even if I have to use your own sail needle to do it," Eudorus retorted jovially.

They soon entered the main living quarters and Eudorus directed Menesthius into a small room adjacent to the master's sleeping chamber. It was arranged with comfortable seats and a small table around which visitors could gather and meet with secure privacy. Menesthius took immediate advantage and threw himself into one of the chairs.

"Don't stand on my account, Eudorus!"

Eudorus took a seat opposite and warmly regarded his old friend. "So you have found love upon the sea," he said, picking up their conversation from where they had abandoned it. "And the contents of unsuspecting ships have nothing to do with this enchantment of yours?"

"You seem pleased with what I brought this time. It wasn't easy to do. Agamemnon's been keeping a close eye on the coasts, even has a few ships he's set aside to escort nervous trader captains."

"All for a fee, of course," Eudorus said dryly.

"Would you doubt it? He's not invincible, and I'm positive he would rather not have me flitting about, but it's become harder for me to take the risks I used to when the seas were open and everyone was walking with two left legs after the war." He laughed. "We need another one to set everyone off-kilter again."

Menesthius' grin faded when he saw that his jest had not had its intended effect. "Oh, come, Eudorus, stop scowling at me. I'm not asking the gods to rain death down upon us again."

Eudorus relented and summoned an apologetic smile. "I know you're not. I'm sorry if I made you think otherwise."

"I accept. However…" He silently studied his commander's face, then shook his head in slow disbelief. "This reluctance of yours. I wouldn't have thought it of you, my friend."

"What?" Eudorus demanded.

"When I was last here, you had a woman in your bed that I suspected you felt a bit more kindly towards than the average slave. What I saw in the bath today proved me right." Menesthius could not hide his smug satisfaction when Eudorus' jaw worked in tight agitation. "I think that if it were not for me periodically showing my face and reminding you of our business agreement, you would happily live here in the hills, totally forgotten, and kicking shit like the commonest farmer."

Menesthius grinned wider when Eudorus tugged at the sides of his rather elegant robe in bruised pride.

"I've hit on it, haven't I?" Menesthius pressed. "It's that woman of yours. She's tamed you into wanting a life of dusty fields, fat children, and utterly tiresome peace." The tanned, weathered face twisted slightly in exaggerated incomprehension.

"The fields are well-watered, Menesthius, and you'll have noticed that I have no fat children running about. Not from Nephele, at least. The two I do have are their mothers' children, not mine so much. What's more, they're content to have it so and I oblige them."

"And what of the peace?"

"That's always in jeopardy when you return," Eudorus finished with a resigned shake of his head. "I haven't forgotten our arrangement, and I've kept the spoils well-divided and secure. Your share is always ready for the taking, whenever you decide to want to collect."

"Why do I have the sense that you would rather I take up my toys and hie myself off to parts unknown? If my appearances put you in danger from a vengeful Agamemnon, I can see why my face is no longer welcome."

Eudorus snorted dismissively. "I don't need to say anything to make you feel unwelcome. You're doing a fine piece convincing yourself."

Menesthius sobered. "All banter aside, while Agamemnon has enviable strength – and no doubt about it – I have acquired yet another ship and crew and they have been doing a fair bit of business closer to Troy than I have ever dared."

"You've ever been one for recruiting the mad, reckless ones."

"Like finds like, I say," Menesthius offered lightly. "Agamemnon's been able to keep the lanes into and out of Troy well-defended, but there have been signs of weakening as I've forced him to attend to areas closer to home. If we prod him a bit further, wound him in some vulnerable gaps in his armor, perhaps I can reach that city again and see what I can take out from under his nose."

Eudorus' even, cold stare was unwavering, his feelings unmistakable. "If I never lay eyes on that city again, the day will come too soon."

Menesthius put out a hand in a bid to be heard, but Eudorus shook his head with sharp finality.

"The sands there still seep the blood of our men," he said, "and if they don't, then I won't let it allow me to forget. Pick your war elsewhere, Menesthius. I want nothing more to do with Troy. Achilles' ashes lie there among those of Priam and Hector. Let others make of the city what they will, but it can be done without my sword or gold."

A clamor rose up outside. It was loud enough to divert Menesthius' attention from persuading Eudorus, and he straightened in curious alarm.

Eudorus was glad of the distraction and, when Charis appeared with a platter laden with bread, goat's cheese and fruit, he rose and swept the table clean for her.

"You're normally so beautifully graceful, Charis," Menesthius said, his voice liquid and caressing. "Did you stumble into a wall out there?"

Charis glanced at him sharply, her displeasure at the familiarity of his tone causing her priestess' demeanor to surge to the forefront. Her neck stiffened and she tilted her chin upwards slightly as she regarded him coolly. "It was not I."

Both men quickly discovered the cause of the commotion when Eudorus' large, stray mongrel entered the room, tail wagging with the lethality of a war club. But he was not alone; riding upon his back was a small child who had his fists clenched in the shaggy scruff and was valiantly trying to steer him as one would a horse.

"Well, look at this one!" Menesthius marveled. "Teach him how to throw a spear or use a bow, and he would give pause to those mounted warriors in the East. I've heard they're actually half-man, half-horse."

The pair trotted around the table, child and steed all smiles and cheerful barks and shouts. Then, the dog stopped suddenly and, as if realizing it had a flea on its back, shook with such force that the child was tossed off.

Eudorus scrambled after him and caught him by the leg before he pitched headfirst onto the flagstone of the floor. A gasp quickly added to the din of confusion, followed by the shattering of crockery. Menesthius, dazed, looked towards the door and saw Eudorus' woman standing with her mouth open in shock and surprise at the sight before her. Around her feet were clay shards and olives, but she had not been so surprised to drop the amphora of wine in her other hand.

Eudorus swung the boy upwards by the ankle so that he could catch him easily in his arms. Far from being scared or hurt, the child fidgeted and squirmed and worked his way out of the Myrmidon's hold, only to crawl onto his back and throw his arms around Eudorus' neck. "No harm done, Nephele," he assured her. "Just an unruly horse."

Menesthius prodded the flanks of the beast in question, which he thought was revoltingly close to the table and the food. "This place has quickly gone over to utter madness," he lamented.

"It is called a home," Charis said from her position beside the door.

Menesthius smiled at her broadly. "Perhaps I'll have one of my own someday, but I'll need a woman to give me this kind of strange, domestic chaos."

Charis' neck stiffened further at the plain invitation. She had seen his eyes, his unmasked expressions and intentions, whenever he came with his stolen bounty. She balked at his insinuations completely each time and thought him an ill-bred lout.

Andromache set the amphora on the table after a worried glance at Astyanax, who still clung to Eudorus' back, then dropped to her knees and began to quickly pick up the clay shards. "I am sorry if you have been disturbed, Menesthius," she said.

"No worries," he replied airily, reaching for a piece of bread. "As I said, it is chaotic, but strangely comforting after such quiet at sea." He looked up at Eudorus and spoke around the hunk of bread in his mouth with some effort. "So, is he one of yours?"

Eudorus shook his head and looked at Andromache, who was rising to her feet, her skirt apron heavy with broken clay. At her feet was the monstrous cur, busily cleaning up the olives that had rolled all about the room.

Menesthius followed Eudorus' gaze. "He's an excellent rider," he told her, "and I'm sure an excellent boy." Andromache smiled and nodded in acceptance of the compliment. He could not help noticing that she glowed at the praise.

"But give this poor man the son he wants," he went on tactlessly. "He's already admitted he's given his other children over to their mothers. It does make one wonder if he's looking for one mother in particular—"

"Enough, Menesthius!" Eudorus snapped. He gave the sailor a viciously embarrassed look before gruffly shrugging his burden off his back and catching him deftly. He awkwardly held the boy out to his mother, who took him with an equally embarrassed smile.

Seeing the two squirming adults before him, Menesthius felt a fleeting regret that he had been so blunt, but it did not last. "Think of it as a tremendous sacrifice on my part, Eudorus," he said.

"Sacrifice?" Eudorus asked, turning. "How so?"

"Well, think of it. If you get yourself one of those fat children I mentioned, it will truly make you into a domestic, shit-kicking farmer, and then where would I be? But a small price to pay to see you get what you want. Gold doesn't satisfy you as it does men like me."

A contemptuous sniff came from the region of the door and all heads turned to see Charis watching Menesthius with a knowing disdain.

"Charis, take Phaedrus with you," Andromache said hastily. "Spare yourself any further grief by staying here." She was well-aware of Charis' low opinion of the mariner and although she admired the woman's ability to harness her temper, Menesthius had a way about him that could provoke even the mildest soul. Eudorus' own outburst, no doubt infused with a measure of familiar tolerance, had been more biting than she had ever heard. And Menesthius had prodded Eudorus before on past occasions.

The priestess took the boy with gentle care and left the room with nary a glance backward at either lord or guest. Menesthius' eyes avidly watched her depart, but he was soon distracted when Andromache smiled at him pleasantly.

"Now that's something I never expected to see," he said. "You look happy to be in the same room with me."

"I admit earlier today in the bath it was unexpected and not altogether desirable," she allowed, "but all is well now. Iasemi told me you needed food and wine, and I took the duty upon myself. To serve you with my own hands is the least I can do for all the beautiful things you brought."

Eudorus looked at Andromache strangely. Menesthius laughed and said, "I'm not well-versed in the wiles of women, but even a blind man could tell that you are angling for something. And it seems my dear commander agrees with me, if his face is any indication. You look like you've run into a tree, Eudorus."

"It seems I have an advisor, whether I like it or not. She convinced me in the bath today."

Menesthius nodded knowingly. "Universal methods of female persuasion, my friend. I fully understand. They can be powerful enough to make a man promise to spill his guts every time he has a thought in his head." He leaned forward towards Andromache. "I have nothing against a woman's mind," he confided. "In fact, I think it can be a treasure, and I'd be obliged if you'd let Charis know I am of such an opinion."

"You're welcome to tell her yourself. I cannot vouch that she would listen to you past the first word."

Menesthius smiled. "We'll see about that. Perhaps my future prospects would persuade her of my worth."

"If you want her so badly," Eudorus put in, "she's yours. It can be as simple as that."

"And have her despise me?" Menesthius shook his head vehemently. "I can stifle my impulses for a while longer."

"And what future prospects would those be?" Andromache inquired, taking up the amphora and pouring two full cups of wine. She handed one to Eudorus first, then Menesthius, her curiosity bland and polite. "Charis has been steadfast to me and I would see her well cared for."

Menesthius glanced over at Eudorus with regretful accusation. "It's entirely possible that one day I could sail right into the Port of Troy and take the riches from the docks even before they're put on Agamemnon's ships."

Eudorus snorted. "You're mad. That'll be the day we all sprout wings and fly."

Andromache brought a hand to her mouth, tried not to smile. "You truly could do that? How dangerous!"

Menesthius drank deeply from his cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, clearly relishing this moment to proclaim his abilities. "When the wind is with you, you can sail through the strait quicker than Ares' temper, and I daresay I could take advantage of it more than most other sea salts."

"Ah, yes, I have heard that such feats are possible, though I'm not overly familiar with the straits myself," Andromache lied smoothly.

"Is there anything you want from Troy?" Menesthius asked her. "Eudorus thinks me crazy—"

"—and drunk."

Menesthius ignored Eudorus and continued to beam confidently at Andromache. "Whatever you would like, beautiful woman, it shall be yours."

Andromache looked over at Eudorus and laughed softly, partly in a bid to drag her stolid lover into the frivolity of the moment. She had no great love for Menesthius, but he was undeniably amusing and had never failed to bring at least one smile to her lips whenever he sprawled about in Dionysian satisfaction. However, she was elated beyond measure that her suggestion to Paris earlier was already bearing fruit. Menesthius did have ambitions, aspirations in complete agreement with what Paris wanted to achieve. If all she needed to do was flatter him a little and cultivate that ambition a little further, she felt it no great trial.

She clasped her hands together and brought them to her mouth in a show of serious contemplation. "What should I like?" she asked him, and cast a sly, inquisitive look at Eudorus, who seemed as genuinely interested in her response as Menesthius did playful.

"I'm afraid I'm asking for more than I deserve or you can deliver…" she began slowly.

"I've never been unable to fulfill a promise yet."

Andromache nearly hesitated, unsure if she should say the words that danced on the tip of her tongue. She was treading on dangerous ground, more perilous still if Eudorus was in a suspicious frame of mind, but he seemed more weary from talk of Menesthius' grand schemes than alert to whatever subtleties might swarm around him. From what she could see, he was treating it as a fanciful joke, which would suit her request all the more.

"If there's a throne laying about," she told Menesthius, "that would be a fine thing to have!"

Menesthius roared and nudged Eudorus ungently. "You heard her, my lord. Are you going to deny her something so trifling? That is what you need: get a throne, get a son, and you'll have your name in the rolls of kings."

Eudorus shook his head. "And be in Agamemnon's company? I'd rather be counted among murderers and thieves than in his brotherhood of kings. He _will_ come here, bristling with spears, if you or I get so close to Troy."

Menesthius groaned and held out his cup to Andromache, who refilled it promptly. "Even if he is left alone to his gold and his miserable family, there's no guarantee he won't attack."

Andromache cleared her throat softly. "My lord, Kallisto and I have the same fears."

Mention of Kallisto made Eudorus shift uncomfortably in his chair. Menethius seized upon it. "Ah, see? That old hen of yours has the right of it." He inclined his head in apology to Andromache. "And you as well. Both of you have a clear head for this matter." He turned to Eudorus, his voice suddenly grave and stripped of the gaiety of wine. "I can't go about the sea as easily as I once did. I can weaken him, but not fast enough. I want Agamemnon gone."

The declaration sang throughout Andromache's body. She had to tell Paris; he had not yet left. It was his plan to slip away under the cover of night. She would find him and tell him to proceed with more courage and wiser daring.

"My lord," she said, "if I am no longer required here…"

"He'll no doubt be glad to see you go!" Menesthius put in. "I can't imagine that he'll be sleeping soundly tonight, what with such a gift to ponder capturing."

Andromache looked at Eudorus, questioning. "May I leave?"

Eudorus nodded, and Andromache felt a spreading pang of guilt at the misery that was etched across his face. _It will all work to our good,_ _Eudorus, _she told herself. _The world will be rid of Agamemnon and our lives will not be blighted with fear or worries._

Never had she felt such an urge to tell him who she was, give him a measure of her confidence and purpose. He was not weak – far from it. She did not hate him – far, far from it. If she could only slip her hand in his, bind him to her tightly, absorb his strength as he would hers and level their eyes on the same far horizon. She needed it, but what's more, she wanted it.

Instead, she contented herself by leaning over him and pressing her lips against his in a kiss of loving encouragement. Menesthius turned away and busied himself with his cup of wine until he glanced sideways and saw her straighten with a grace that seemed innate, unthinking, regal. He stared into his wine, uncertainty pulling at him, piercing the haze of wine that had gathered about him.

"I shall leave you both to devise a way to get that throne," Andromache said. "Menesthius is right. Such a trifling thing!"

She laughed and Eudorus gave a reluctant smile at this gentle prod into light humor. Menesthius stirred himself from his contemplation to join the levity, but he was not fast enough. As his eyes met those of Eudorus' woman, he saw the smile still there on her wide and sensual mouth, but it had lost a measure of its genuineness. It seemed frozen and anxious, if only a little.

"Dinner will be memorable, Menesthius," she said levelly. "I have a feeling it will initiate an enterprise of some sort between you, and I would see both of you well-fed."

With that, she bowed her head and left.

Menesthius heard Eudorus say something, but he did not listen. He craned his neck around to look through the small window behind him. She soon appeared, walking across the central yard with no visible signs of agitation or nervousness. The wine was playing tricks on him. Very briefly, like a lightning flash, the thought had occurred to him that this Nephele was not a lowly slave after all – not some dyer's wife caught up in the turmoil of war, or whatever it was she had been before Eudorus caught her.

He shoved his suspicion away impatiently. _Impossible._ Anyone of any importance who had fled from Troy had vanished into the mountains, there to die without the comforts to which they had grown so accustomed. Palace rats were fat and lazy compared to those that haunted the wharves and quickly died when they were forced out into harsher conditions. Their human co-habitants were no different.

With a laugh to mask his inattention, he drained the rest of his cup and envisioned the day he would again set foot on the sands of Troy.

* * *

Paris smothered the urge to look over his shoulder again, to glance out the window at the deepening night. Clouds had gathered and rain seemed imminent. It would be a perfect opportunity to vanish and put miles between him and any unlikely pursuit before dawn.

He regretted coming to dinner, wished he had remained hidden in a dark corner until the propitious moment to spirit away, but Andromache had insisted on his appearance. When she had come to him with news of Menesthius' desire to be rid of Agamemnon, he had been hard-pressed to not leave at that moment, all the quicker to put his plan into action. But when she told him of Menesthius' contemplating gaze, he agreed that the less suspicious actions on their part, the better. He tried to chide her for her blunder in asking for the throne, but her defense that she had found some measure of safety in boldness was well-argued. While he remained unconvinced, he acknowledged that she had survived thus far and bent to her judgment.

So he fought his impatience as he sat amongst the other men brought by Menesthius, smiling and laughing when appropriate, listening intently when required. His eyes never strayed far from Andromache when he did happen to look about the room and, while his impending journey was never long absent from his thoughts, he found himself thinking often of his brother's widow.

If she was miserable, she showed no sign of it and recalled his accusations earlier that day. He had called her a desperate whore, the insult couched in kinder terms but no less vicious. It was he who had been desperate, wielding the weapon of Hector's spectre and condemnation as clumsily as a warrior the first time he hefts a spear. Despite what she had said about finding peace, he had not allowed himself to believe it. Yet now, sitting here, he could not deny it. It had happened; she had truly made peace, or as much as she could.

On the heels of that came a stinging question: Had Helen and I been separated during the siege and unable to reunite, had I been forced to make of a dire situation when absolutely no control was given me, would I have found peace somehow, somewhere? With someone?

He swallowed the rest of the wine in his cup, pushing away the misery that crept into him. His purpose was no longer linked to Helen, but to his mission and that alone. It was something to fix his eyes upon and strive for, but how much better it would be to not have to do it at all.

Too late. Too late to reverse his decision, too late to remain any longer. The voices around him had become louder, more raucous. He would not be able to walk far with a pounding head, so best to leave now.

He looked up. Men and women had risen from their benches and were beginning to dance. It reminded him intolerably of Menelaus' palace, of that night years ago when he had arrogantly defied Hector and set to burning the embers that would eventually flare and consume Troy.

He could hear Menesthius, the most boisterous of a rowdy lot, and Paris felt regret pull at him. Had matters been different, he thought that he would have enjoyed sailing the sea under Menesthius' command. He was a good man.

A useful man, Paris reminded himself. Rising, he weaved his way through the gathering bodies. When he reached the door, he paused and turned his head for one last glimpse of Andromache. Their eyes met, but not for long. Eudorus, beside her, spoke something into her ear and she turned towards him. Her eyes brightened, her mouth curving into the most pleasing smile Paris had ever seen. It spoke of affection and desire. Contentment.

He slipped out through the door and into the night. Their unspoken farewell had been so brief, it might not have ever been. But it was of no consequence.

The beauty, the hope, the joy he had seen on Andromache's face might be the last image he would ever have of her. In no way did she look like the angry, vengeful woman who had struck him and rained down righteous abuse upon him.

She looked like the Andromache of old, the Andromache he had admired, the bride who had blossomed under the affection of his brother and become Hector's mate of body and soul.

He was glad he had lived long enough to see it.


	27. Chapter 27

_Thanks for the reviews, and many thanks to Constant Distraction and especially ConcreteHole for their suggestions &__ encouragement!_

* * *

**Chapter 27**

It was impossible to keep constant vigil, to keep eyes fixed on the horizon towards Mycenae. Such watchfulness tended to make time pass at an unnatural pace, and the first days and weeks after Paris' departure were agonizingly tense for Andromache.

Menesthius had marked the absence of one of his slaves, but he showed little concern. He expressed regret that the fellow had gone, that he had hoped to redeem the boy's wretched navigational skills. But then he shrugged the matter aside and said at least one more wandering son of Greece was able to find his way home. Andromache had told him she was certain all was well with the wayward fugitive, but while the matter was at an end for the Myrmidon captain, her own worries were far from over.

Where was Paris? Did he still live? She had not received word from him, either in person or through a trusted intermediary. The absence of contact could mean he had been discovered, or he was still trying to insinuate himself where he could find and seize the opportunity to kill Agamemnon. She wanted the Mycenaean to breathe his last, and soon. She would never feel completely safe while he lived. He, not Eudorus, was the greater danger to her and Astyanax.

_And tucked away in these hills,_ she thought, _I feel helpless, weak—_

She emitted a ragged cry, felt blinding pleasure surge through her whole body. Her arms buckled against her will, but she made no undignified tumble into the bedclothes. Eudorus immediately snaked an arm around her and sat on his heels, drawing her back against him to keep them joined. She rested her brow against his cheek, her hand limply entwined in his hair. Their breaths caressed one another, punctuated by a stray moan as the pulse of their unity refused to quickly dissipate. After a fashion, their erratic heartbeats slowed into a leaden cadence of mutual exhaustion.

A frosty breeze floated through the window, quickly drying the sheen of perspiration on her torso and setting her to shivering. She laid her hands over his, interrupting his languorous and reverent exploration of her body.

"A blanket, my lord?" she whispered.

"I am quite warm where you are," he replied, lips playing at her ear.

"And what of your back?" she insisted. "It is as exposed to the cold as my front."

Eudorus sighed. He kissed the curve of her neck and shoulder and tightened his arms around her in a quick squeeze of affection. When his embrace loosened, she crawled off his lap and dove under the blankets with a loud chatter of her teeth. One of her feet kicked the dog that lay sprawled at the bottom of the bed, waking the mongrel only slightly before it shifted in irritation and went back to sleep.

"He's not keeping me warm as you promised," she accused, "and it's not yet winter."

"But nor are we usually above the blankets at this time of year," he said, pulling the warm covers over him as well. "I think we took each other by surprise tonight."

"A rare meeting of the minds," Andromache laughed. "I craved you tonight as much as you did me." As if to prove her assertion, she rolled onto her side and drew one leg over his thigh. With her right hand, she played at the damp curls that still lay plastered against his forehead.

Eudorus turned towards her and wished dawn was a few hours closer to breaking. It would have favored him since she was facing the window and he could have seen her more fully. The indirect moonlight only illuminated a corner of the room that reflected little, none of it falling upon her. He wanted to see her flushed and unruly, so very unlike the composed and graceful creature that went about her duties in the light of day with mild sternness and restraint.

Her voice still possessed a spent, raw edge that continued to ignite his senses and he imagined how she looked in this moment. If he guessed aright, she was as sated and happy as he, her eyes bright and lips parted as she still tried to regain her breath. He could feel it quick and warm against his cheek.

"Menesthius was right, damn his rotten hide," he said.

Andromache stopped playing with his hair. "About what?"

"That 'shit-kicking farmer' nonsense he spewed when he was last here."

"I've forgotten what he said. Remind me."

"Staying here, forgotten in these hills, with nothing but my home and you to content me."

He wondered if he had misspoken when there was no response, but when he felt her fingertips lazily trail down his temple and along his jaw, he smiled into the darkness.

"Now I remember," she said. "He wants to go back to Troy."

Eudorus groaned. "And you asked for that impossible gift. A throne? What were you thinking? You know Menesthius. It fired his imagination the rest of his stay. I heard of little else for two days afterwards."

"Was he persuasive?"

"To risk all that I have, just to irritate a king who could crush me if he so wanted?" Eudorus asked. He paused, then chuckled. "Almost."

Andromache laughed. "You surprise me! You would truly help him in that?"

Eudorus shook his head. "It's a cursed place. Any city that housed the death of Achilles, I should never want to set foot in again."

The gentle fingers and warm thigh were slowly removed, and she slid onto her back beside him, a gap now between them. "Achilles is in the past," she said, the words distinctly clipped.

He looked over at her and saw now that her profile was distinct against the vaguely illuminated wall. He did not know if she was staring above them or if she was feigning the beginnings of slumber, nor if she was tired or angry.

"Yes, he is in the past, and so is everything else that has happened before what we do now," he said. When she did not respond, he reached down and took her hand in his. "You overcame your hatred of me," he said. "If you still despise most Greeks, even those dead like Achilles, I cannot help that. I am only one man."

She gently squeezed his hand in reply and again turned onto her side. "The day you captured me, I had little love for anyone. Time is the greatest healer and I think even our good Meton would agree with me about that. Although he does have a fondness for vile potions." She made a sound of disgust. "But it is as you say about my opinion of most Greeks. I am no champion for Menesthius," she said. "He irritates me, but he knows the sea better than anyone you or I have ever met. If he thinks he can eventually reach Troy again, I believe him. Allowing him to proceed will keep us in his favor and keep his fleet within our influence."

"Phoenix has a greater chance of reaching Troy from the east with his Hittite mercenaries than Menesthius does charging through the straits," Eudorus muttered.

"But Phoenix hasn't the ambition of Menesthius," Andromache pointed out. "At least you have never said anything about him which leads me to think so."

"No, he doesn't," Eudorus said.

"Menesthius wants Agamemnon gone from this earth. I agree with him. We have to weaken him."

"He thinks the deed can be done as simply as blowing your nose, as do you, it seems. His successes on the sea have given him too much confidence."

"And you have too little," she chided.

"I know the difference between cautious force and reckless stupidity," he said, defensive. "I have one and Menesthius the other. And who can say what kind of man Phoenix is today? He would no doubt now think me a strange man compared to how he knew me when we fought side by side. I know there are many days where I seldom recognize myself."

"Nor do I," she said softly. "It has been an uneasy transformation. For too long I took your sparing of my son but denied you all else. I regret that."

"Don't think yourself foolish that you did so," he told her. "I was used to living according to orders, unspoken understanding among men of how to win and what winning means."

"Winning battles on a field is not the same as winning a heart, Eudorus."

"And you showed me." He gave a soft sigh. "It is something I wanted for a very long time. I thought for awhile I wanted Tryphena's."

Andromache slid closer to him beneath the blankets and laid her head upon his chest. "You have never told me that," she whispered. "You seemed so callous when she died."

He shrugged, wishing he had not spoken the girl's name. He had treated Tryphena in the only way he knew how at the time, a rough mercenary fresh off the field of battle, the years prior to Troy similarly filled with paid soldiering. What had he known of peace, of quiet prosperity? For so long his daily life had been the taking of life, the taking of goods. He had not wounded Tryphena in a way he recognized, instead damaging her mind while leaving her body intact and unblemished. Her suicide had surprised him far more than it had many others. The disobedience angered him at first, then, like a sharp tremor that comes after an earthquake was the realization that he had lived in uncaring ignorance and had caused the girl's death.

In discomfort, he shrugged again.

He felt a firm hand laid against his shoulder. "Don't," she said. "It is only I, Eudorus. Speak to me as you would Kallisto. It is the only thing remaining that I do want."

"More than that infernal throne you teased Menesthius with?"

Andromache smiled and slipped an arm around him, nestled closer. "Well, perhaps equally."

There was no sound, but she felt a small laugh rumble within him and regretted that she had made light of it, thus making further serious conversation difficult. It was no idle whim; she wanted to have the same privilege as Kallisto and be his utter confidante, be the breast upon which he wept, as Iasemi had seen him do long ago. As horrible as it made her feel to think it, she wanted the spontaneous trust she had shared with Hector. So much else she had experienced with Hector was in place here: the regard, the pleasure in simple comforts, the passion.

But the trust was missing, and she knew what obstructed it. It was wholly within her power to remove it, but the thought of doing so terrified her. She could not know him without he knowing her. Her false story of being Nephele, merchant's widow, was only a pale imitation of the wealth of reality that lay buried in her identity as Andromache. The woman Eudorus knew was a house of straw without mortar. She did not want it inspected or approached with too sharp an eye. This guarded perimeter was palpable, and Eudorus had long ago avoided encroaching over the line she had drawn. He believed it was out of grief, and respected it as such. However, it repelled him from allowing her to enter his sphere fully as well.

He loved her. Of that she no longer had any doubt; but he was, above all, fair. And the lack of fairness on her part kept his hand from being fully extended. As long as she kept the awful truth of her identity secret, the path would be blocked.

With even heavier heart, she wondered if it should be forever blocked. Why should she want to replace Hector in any respect? It was unthinkable. By withholding this one piece, the substitution would never be complete. But was this deliberate suspension between the two ever going to make her content?

No, she told herself, I can never replace Hector, no matter what I say or what I do not. The chest rising and falling beneath my cheek may feel the same, but the breath within it is wholly different. The cold feet that now rub against mine have trod on different soil, and the hands and fingers that I felt on and inside me tonight have held different weapons, done different deeds, touched a different Andromache.

_Hector was Hector. Eudorus is Eudorus._

She lay motionless against him, monitoring the pace of his breathing and the beat of his heart. Her tongue and mouth grew dry as she silently debated what to do. Paris had seemed willing to allow her to confess to Eudorus if she thought the love and will was there to fight for her rights, and those of Astyanax.

She still uncertain of that, but there were other things to be gained by a confession. Intangible things that were neither thrones nor scepters, but an honest reflection of self in the other's eyes.

Her thoughts were interrupted often by the repetitious refrain: _Hector was Hector. Eudorus is Eudorus. Hector was… Eudorus is… And I am…_

A sob welled in her breast, but before she could swallow it back into oblivion, it tumbled from her lips.

Eudorus flinched at the sound, waking from a budding sleep. At first he was uncertain if he had actually heard the sob or merely dreamed it, but when he felt her shudder once before quickly rolling away, and felt the cooling of tears on his chest, he knew it was no dream.

He sat up and leaned over Nephele. She had moved fully away from him, nearly to the edge of the bed, and was reaching down to retrieve her robe from the floor.

No, she would not leave him. She had fled him once before and hidden herself in the root cellar. He had hated being shoved into the darkness by Kallisto, had felt inadequate to pry Nephele from her self-imposed fortress. If she fled for whatever reason tonight, the last thing he wanted to do was chase her into the night and figure out what was wrong. He did not know what had prompted her tears, so he said the first thing that entered his mind.

"Is it Tryphena?" he asked.

When she stopped fumbling for her robe, he wondered if he had guessed correctly, but when she said nothing further, he began to doubt.

"Is this about the danger you think Agamemnon poses to me?" he pressed. "Us?"

She twisted herself around on the bed until she faced him. The moon's course had progressed enough so that half of her face was illuminated. The light was still feeble, but he could see the drying trail of tears on her cheek. She did not look miserable and dejected, as she had the day in the storehouse. She looked tentative, as if she had a thousand thoughts and words she wanted to say, but could not. Out of shame? Fear?

_Of him?_

"What am I to you, Eudorus?" she asked.

His initial confusion was sharp and sudden, simply due to the unexpected question, but the answer was quick in forming. It was something he had often worked over in his mind during long arms practice sessions, whenever he had been required to focus on one thing and concentrate his thoughts and energies.

When he raced, or scaled the hills, or let loose a barrage on a practice target, he cleared his mind and Nephele often filled that void. He knew what she was to him, and it was as perfectly pieced together as flawless parries and counterthrusts in sword exercises.

Why had he never told her before? He thought she knew. She was a clever one and had a manner about her that suggested whatever was spoken to her was redundant, that she had already divined it. How more deeply could he convey that he loved her?

"I failed when Tryphena killed herself," he said. "I wounded her in a new, unfamiliar way and thought this plan of mine to live here in peace wouldn't succeed. I was gathering up the pieces, failure on my mind, when I saw you."

Her gaze turned downward in studious examination of her hands, but when he laid a palm against her damp cheek, she met his eyes.

"You were so calm," he went on. "You worked in the fields and kitchen without complaint, though you had cause to. It was as if captivity meant nothing. You harnessed the other women and kept order where I could not. I saw you no more often than I did the other slaves, but whenever I did, your image lingered with me long after I passed you by.

"Then the day came when I no longer wanted to see you doing such things, such menial tasks with every glance my way that of a slave. I wanted your eyes to look at me differently, and I wanted your lips to speak words other than obedient replies to orders. I wanted you as you were today and are tonight, as you have been in days and nights past and to come."

Her hand went to his, rubbing it in slow, silent emotion. She turned her head and kissed his palm with fervor. "My captivity did mean something, Eudorus," she whispered hoarsely. "I thought I wouldn't survive. So many days I wanted to end my life as Tryphena did, but I had too much to live for. And now, I have you as well." Her lids squeezed shut, and fresh tears escaped.

"Nephele." He captured her lips in a kiss that lasted too briefly, for she pulled away and rested her brow against his. Her hands settled on his shoulders, fingers playing nervously with his hair and beard, and when she spoke, her breath was sweet against his skin.

"Remember what you said the day in the bath? The day Menesthius returned?"

Eudorus was silent, his memory racing and finding it as hazy as the steam that had no doubt saturated the bath that day. He shook his head mutely, and hoped she understood from his expression, shadowed as it was, that he wanted to know.

He felt her hesitate, heard her take a slow but noticeably deep breath. When she spoke, it was soft, but measured. "You said, 'I wouldn't know what to do with a queen if I had one.' And I…I told you I doubted it. Do you remember now?"

Eudorus straightened, his brow knitted in confused interest. "What are you talking about, Nephele?"

The words came more slowly, accompanied by a wan smile. "I think you know, my love."

He felt a prickling of uneasiness ripple throughout him.

Her smile became slightly braver, her eyes glittering with a cautious courage. "I know very, _very_ little about rich merchants' wives. They did come to Priam's palace sometimes, but I was not among them. It was I they came to see."

Eudorus felt himself go cold, colder than the autumn air surrounding them had already done. There was no blanket ever woven that could warm him and battle the chill that was coursing through every extremity.

"Queen…"

He felt his feet sinking into the hot sand of a beach, saw the circle of Myrmidon faces about him, saw the cruel joy on Tydeus' face as he held a helpless infant high in the air. Most prominent of all, he recalled the panic, the white-hot fear on the mother's face, Nephele's face, as the life of her son had been precariously in the balance. He had threatened to kill it, promised that he would after a day's stay of execution. The boy…

_Fugitives. A woman, her slave, and infant son. With Troy in ashes behind them._

_Hector's widow, with his son. The heir to Troy._

The names were forever etched in his mind. How often had they been the subjects of jeers and boasts, of vows and curses in the Greek camps?

"Andromache."

The name passed his lips, a hoarse exhalation, a strangled sound of shock propelled from an invisible punch to his stomach.

Her reaction was unexpected. He did not know why she had revealed herself to him, thought she must be under some spell. Otherwise, why should she be doing this now? She was showing no fear, her eyes instead bright with unshed tears in the silver light and her lips were parted in a rapture that belied those tears.

She leaned forward and took his face between her hands. Her lips met his in a kiss that deepened his shock.

"Say it again, Eudorus," she breathed huskily, her hands fluttering over his face, his hair, his shoulders, as though she wanted to touch him but was afraid to linger long in one place. "Please, say my name again!"

He obeyed, unthinking, earning him a tearful laugh in response.

Her joy confounded him. He felt nothing of the kind. They sat together so closely, but it was as if he had been picked up by Zeus and cast into the heavens to dwell in another realm. His mind was awhirl with confusion and anger.

Try as he might, he could not smother the sting that was slowly spreading throughout him. His memory was clear now, and so many things he had said or done, that she had said or done, clamored around him, demanding translation in light of this new knowledge.

He turned away, stared down at the tangled blankets, and tried to stem the past from unraveling. The threads were falling away so quickly he knew he could never gather them up before he was buried. What had all this time meant? He thought he had found a truth, plucked the seed from deep within him, and Nephele had been the fertile soil in which it had taken root and grown. But what had fed it and made it grow? It was a crop that suddenly looked unhealthy, perhaps ruined.

But although a warrior's blood still flowed through him, a breed whose pride rested on being the best and infallible, he had also become what Menesthius derided so easily. While the pain of being foolishly blind to Nephele's deception cut his soldier's pride to the quick, he was now also a farmer, and his lovingly tended harvest was facing ruin. Within him came the call that any such man hears when confronted with disaster.

He wanted to save it.

Still, he could not bring himself to look into her eyes. He was now all too aware of what she was, what she had known, what she had endured. All her sorrow and grief had not been confined to Troy. He had visited some upon her himself.

He was angry; at her, at himself. She had not trusted him, but for too long he had given her little assurance to do so. For too long she had dwelt in uncertainty: Would he kill her son? Would he force her to his bed? Would he treat her life lightly?

What could he do to hold back the hail, as it were, which threatened to destroy what he had worked so hard to create?

He crawled off the bed, taking up his own robe from the floor. Andromache -- how natural that name now sounded! -- remained on the bed, rigid and unsure, her gaze unwavering. He held up a hand and smiled in reassurance as he walked through the open door. When he turned into a small chamber that adjoined theirs, opposite from the room where he had entertained Menesthius, he was so intent on his course that he did not hear the shocked gasp, "No!", behind him.

* * *

Andromache scrambled off the bed, her hands numb from both the night air and shock at Eudorus' action. Where was he going? When she saw him turn into the room that Iasemi shared with Astyanax, she felt the rest of her body go cold with horror. Had she been so wrong? She cursed herself for her sentimental foolishness, for her misplaced confidence, for her pride in wanting to be everything to Eudorus and believing she could do it through honesty.

No, he _couldn't_ mean to harm Astyanax. Why would he? She had convinced herself as she lay curled against him that telling him was a good decision.

The doubts tore at her as she fled into the room behind him. The flurry of activity roused Iasemi but, before the girl could lift herself from her small bed, Andromache placed a hand on her head in a silent command to remain where she lay.

Eudorus was kneeling beside Astyanax's large cradle, a makeshift contraption that had been quickly thrown together to accommodate the growing child. The moonlight that had shone on her face filtered through the slit window in the tiny chamber and fell on Eudorus' features. His gaze was unwavering on the sleeping figure of her son.

She drew up beside him and knelt, tried vainly not to shiver, but failed. The shudders were caused as much by fear as the simple cold of the night.

One of his hands grasped the edge of the cradle, and she laid hers over it.

"Eudorus?"

She was afraid to say more. The single name itself, and the way she said it, held a thousand questions.

_What are you thinking?_

_What will you do to me?_

_To him?_

_To us?_

She shivered again and suddenly felt even colder. Looking down, she saw a fearful sweat glistening on her arms. Her stomach churned. But she dared not speak.

There was a rustle and, then, she felt warmth covering her, the smell of dyed wool and his unique scent filling her. A strong arm encircled her and drew her against a body that was tense, full of vitality, protective, tender. She sagged against him in relief, absorbing, needing, loving.

"Eudorus."

This time, the name only held one meaning.

* * *

_**As always, thanks for reading. I'm assuming you're all liking it out there! And if you're sporking it, I'd enjoy hearing about that as well.  
**_

_**Next chapter: Kallisto gets the news & Andromache's challenges are not yet over.  
**_


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

Andromache had seen Kallisto in many different moods, from jovial to fearsome, but never before had she seen such ferocity on the old woman's face. It was a twisted brew of anger, shock, disappointment and wounded pride.

The sharp, burning eyes looked from Eudorus to her and back again. The words, when they came, snapped as brightly and dangerously as lightning in a summer storm.

"So, what do you propose to do with her?"

The challenge was obvious, the unspoken options terrifying.

Andromache glanced over at Eudorus and saw that he was as surprised by Kallisto's reaction as she. With only the slightest hesitant doubt, she hoped that she would continue to have his love and understanding through this latest trial. He had yet to disappoint her. When she had decided to profess her true identity, finally convinced the risks were worth the honesty, she had entrusted herself to him and he had reacted as she had hoped he would.

An entire month had passed, the knowledge held only between themselves and Iasemi. Andromache was reveling in the newfound intimacy. She wanted to savor it as she and Eudorus conveyed silent conversations through eyes and gestures when in the presence of others, a secret none could guess, a delicious bond, a new life alight within her, a vibrancy of sharing and creating.

Perhaps she had become too confident and misjudged Kallisto. She knew the woman would not greet the news as kindly as some might, but this was unexpected. And she worried.

Indeed, she worried. Kallisto wielded more influence over Eudorus than she did, a privilege forged from years of loyalty that Andromache could never hope to surpass. Despite her faith that Eudorus would remain steadfast to her, that initial doubt still lingered. She knew the pushes and pulls that loyalty could exert and had seen it work its weighty burden on Hector over the years. Eventually, she had leaped ahead of other, longer-lived bonds, but it had required no small effort on her part. Hector's loyalty to Paris had never been completely surmounted, and never had she encountered a Kallisto in her former life.

Kallisto had forged Eudorus into the man he was, had spent nearly her whole life serving him. That was something not lightly tossed aside. Her own royal blood could mean nothing compared to that.

"No one need know," Eudorus replied, and Andromache was startled from her thoughts at the sound of his voice. She looked over at him, saw an encouraging gleam in his eyes that could not be a trick of the bright, autumn sun.

A sustained breeze whistled over the knoll upon which they stood, laying the dying grass over without mercy. The stiff, dancing ends tickled Andromache's ankles and the river that plodded beside them was whipped ever so slightly. The sun, a blinding yellow of very late autumn, reflected more brilliantly upon the surface until the river seemed awash in sparkling jewels. She shivered and tugged her woolen cloak around her, venturing an expectant glance at Kallisto.

The old woman, bare-armed and having come straight from the hot kitchen, was untroubled by the cool wind. She stood as rigid and unconquerable as she always did, and Andromache felt a strong urge to suggest to her that she was more suited to serve as a column than as a person.

She did harbor affection for Kallisto; the woman had been an ally after Eudorus had chosen to take her to his bed, but if that friendship had been based on who she was, rather than Eudorus' own desires, then she had severely misjudged her.

"These hills will forever keep the secret," Andromache offered with a meek smile.

Kallisto snorted and gave Andromache a penetrating, stony stare. "I trusted you, Nephele, as much as I can trust anyone. But what have you been up to all this time, I wonder?" Her glare pivoted to Eudorus, its strength undiminished. "We have a fat treasury in these hills, and what could it be used for, _I wonder_?"

Her tone was unmistakable, and Andromache understood. In the span of only a few moments, Kallisto had formed a scenario to her satisfaction about this imposter's motives and plans.

"There's a city out there I am certain you want to get back to," Kallisto continued, her eyes and words a relentless ram of intimidation. "Were you going to manipulate Eudorus into winning it for you?"

Andromache grasped desperately at words, any words, but Kallisto's fierce suspicion, her lightning leaps into truths and accurate theories, rendered her speechless. She felt a betraying warmth nest in her cheeks and realized she had lost when she saw Eudorus' face suddenly pale, his lips part in sudden disbelief and a betrayal of her own making.

Kallisto seized upon her misstep immediately.

"But what I should be asking is what were you planning for your son? We have a king under our roof, Eudorus! And a mother who wants to secure his rights, as should any mother of a prince. With all of this wealth flowing into our coffers, it must have occurred to her to lay hold of it through whatever means and use it to take back the city she was robbed of!"

It is hurt pride, Andromache told herself. Kallisto is vituperative, yes, but she is wounded. She prides herself on being impervious to trickery, the clearest pair of eyes to ever see. Eudorus has immense pride himself, but he weighed it against my secrecy and found it not as important as the feelings he held for me.

She had to say something, or all would be lost.

"I never thought myself better than you, Kallisto," she said, smothering the tremor that threatened to betray her nervousness. "I took no pleasure in hiding myself and deceiving you."

"Better than me?" Kallisto asked incredulous. "I should say not! It is on Eudorus' behalf that I am outraged."

Andromache ventured another glance at Eudorus, who seemed more subdued and doubtful than before. The flush on her cheeks had faded, but it had left a mark on his conscience and he seemed to be pondering it still.

"Kallisto--" he began.

"So what do you propose to do with the Trojan heir now?" the old woman demanded. "You would not have hesitated in the past."

Andromache felt her entire body go numb. She was inciting him to murder! "There will be no harm to him!" she cried. "None! He has done nothing and he _will_ do nothing! He is but a baby! He knows not his father or who he is!"

This has gone so terribly wrong! she wailed to herself, the cry careening impotently inside her. And it was I who suggested to Eudorus that Kallisto be told, that she was owed the privilege of such honesty.

What options were open to her? Squaring Eudorus and Kallisto against one another? No, she would not even consider it. That was a trick fit for Helen, not Andromache.

"This life here has made you too complacent and soft, Eudorus," Kallisto went on, her voice acquiring a note of regret. "Some of your men have left to seek their glories as they have always known them. Tydeus stays, though why he does is a mystery for the gods to reveal. His loyalty runs deep and I would guard that more preciously than the deceitful heart of a Trojan."

Andromache feared that Kallisto's bold gambit to seize control by demanding answers from Eudorus and belittling her directly would succeed. She indeed felt as if the reins of the conversation had been snapped out of her hands. What more could she say that would not betray something, someone, else? She could not mention Paris now. That would be one revelation too many.

Eudorus was not easy to rile, although he did not attempt to mask his growing impatience. When he spoke, his voice was tight, the words clipped.

"I have always let you speak more freely than another would, Kallisto," Eudorus said. "One more word and you will have overstepped my leniency."

Kallisto would not be cowed. "Do you truly believe that she would continue to silently submit to slavery?" she went on without hesitation. "That she would gladly stay if there were opportunities for her to leave or plot to get what she wants?" Her own impatience was showing as well, and she made a desperate bid to her adopted son, her hands gesturing sharply in agitation.

"Think, Eudorus! Your commander slew her husband, dragged him in the dust behind his chariot, defiled his body! Then he taunted the entire city with his action! You think that would pass unavenged? You think she could not hold you partly accountable for such a thing? My son, I fear you have been made a dupe, thinking the sighs and moans from this woman's mouth have been for you and you alone."

The accusations were becoming expected, but though Andromache was terrified by their merciless bile, her anger was nothing compared to the rage that flared within her when the details of Hector's death were exhumed. As the memory of Hector's brutalized body was forced in front of her eyes again, she felt reason and control bolt like a frightened horse.

She leaped forward from Eudorus' side and struck Kallisto with brutal force. The woman's head snapped to the side from the impact and Kallisto staggered blindly before falling to her knees. Further blows would have come, but Andromache's arms were soon pinned behind her back and she was dragged away from the object of her wrath.

"Do not _dare_ to presume anything about me!" she screamed. "You think I am nothing but a desperate queen scheming to secure a mound of dirt and charred brick? That is Helen, you describe, not I! She wants Troy more than I do!" She tried to wrench herself from Eudorus' tight hold, but he would not let her go. As Kallisto slowly pulled herself to her feet, Andromache rained invective upon the old woman.

"And do not dare to speak of Hector! He begged me to leave Troy, right until the very moment he went out to face that butcher Achilles. He did not tell me to fight to win Troy back, Kallisto. He only wanted me to live! He wanted Astyanax to grow tall and be as loved as I loved him." She heard herself speaking, but did not comprehend the words. It was a spring burst from within her, formless but with only one need: to leave the vessel that contained it. She had fallen slack in Eudorus' embrace, the tears coming freely. She felt bloody, every scab ripped open and now raw and oozing.

"Can I not be as devoted to my own as you to yours?" she wept.

Kallisto, now upright, looked at Andromache pitilessly. "What is mine is now yours, also. You are bound to Eudorus, as am I. Your home is here, as it is mine. When Troy perished, so did your claim to it. It is lost to you. Accept it." She sighed, as if she was unbelieving that she needed to continue instructing two unruly children when the lesson should have been learned long ago.

"And what if Agamemnon had discovered you were here, yet Eudorus was still ignorant?" she went on. "If you harbor any love for him, that possibility must have occurred to you. And a great shame if not. Agamemnon may love his gold, but he is very fond of trophies and you are certainly...that." She looked to Eudorus, her deliberate calm nearly as powerful as an infernal rage. "And what would you have done, had he appeared one day to demand her? Bartered her for goods, to spare our home? Would that it had happened earlier, for I daresay you would have done it. Now, you are too attached--"

"Kallisto," Eudorus warned, low and threatening, "your tongue is fast forcing me to a choice I never wished to make."

The old woman's chin rose, her challenging demeanor undiminished. "No son of mine would choose a pair of soft thighs over the wisdom of a mother," she said confidently.

When Eudorus did not speak, the surprise on Kallisto's face could not be masked. "But you cannot trust her!" she implored. "I want her to answer me: just what plans did you have to use his treasure to get your city back in your hands? Protest to the contrary all you like, but I will see through any lies from this moment on!"

Andromache knew not what to say. Kallisto's question had forced her into a corner where another confession would exonerate her of one crime, but convict her of another. This plan that Kallisto was convinced existed did, in fact, exist. A scheme of Paris' devising. She had agreed to help him where she could, but he had struck out for Mycenae with but a desire to kill Agamemnon using internal strife to achieve it. Nothing else had been assured. But how could she confess any of that without bringing further anger upon her head from Kallisto and further showing Eudorus how deeply she had betrayed him?

Kallisto's eyes narrowed, her mouth curving into a grim smile. Her silence had been confession enough for the old woman.

Andromache felt Eudorus' hands grip her upper arms. He spun her around to face him. "Andromache?" he asked. She could see he was wounded by the uncertainty, his eyes conveying his pain and doubt clearly.

"W-would you have bartered me to Agamemnon?" she asked, trying to forestall answering Kallisto.

"No," he said, vehement. "I would have given Agamemnon nothing. He would have been shown a fresh grave and told lies about who rested in it before he took you or anyone else."

Andromache looked deeply into his eyes and believed he meant it. The fervor nearly moved her to fresh tears.

"Very noble, Eudorus," Kallisto said dryly. "That you would endanger a greater enterprise for one woman."

Eudorus shot Kallisto a withering gaze. "Had I known you would react like this and were you of proper age, I would send for Agamemnon right now and tell him you were Hector's widow."

The air around them had grown foul and angry, and Andromache did not wish to see Eudorus turn so harshly against the woman who had raised him. She could afford to be generous, to attempt some measure of peacemaking. She had never deliberately forced Hector to choose between her and Paris in any argument, and she would not do so now with Eudorus and Kallisto. She laid a hand on Eudorus' shoulder.

"Kallisto is only speaking truthfully, and I admire her for that. I would not have her be dishonest, now that I have decided to shed my own dishonesty with you."

She turned, but her gesture went unacknowledged. Kallisto's glare was still stony and unyielding. "You still haven't answered my question. You saw our treasure build, you have a son without his rightful kingdom. Do not lie to me and say your ambitions died from the charm to be found here. What scheme were you devising?"

There was a pregnant silence. Andromache thought furiously. She could not mention Paris, but there was another…

"Menesthius…" she began.

"I knew it!" The words burst from Eudorus angrily. "He assured me the decision to pursue Agamemnon was mine and he would abide by it, but that devil sought to undercut me, and using you! Did he know who you were?"

"No!" she protested. "I never spoke to him when you were not present. He wants Agamemnon dead, as do I. With him gone, I would be safe." She looked at him earnestly, then glared over her shoulder at Kallisto. "We _all_ would be safe." Returning her gaze to Eudorus, she said, more softly, "That has become my only desire. If Troy should ever come into my hands, I would not turn it away, but I do not seek it. I only want Agamemnon dead and then I can again know peaceful sleep. I trust Menesthius to best him in some manner."

Eudorus said nothing, his pale eyes searching her face, for what she did not know. She was not exactly lying; Menesthius' own desire had been clear and she was only saying that she was placing her faith in him to carry out her unspoken will. For all she knew, he could very well do it.

Eudorus gestured at Kallisto with a motion of his head. "Leave us." Kallisto began to protest, but Eudorus' dismissive nod became more emphatic. "Go back to the kitchen. This has not turned out as I had hoped."

"Hardly!" Kallisto snapped. She reluctantly turned and strode back to her domain.

The wind continued to whip around them, and Andromache pulled her cloak tighter around her. She did not look at Eudorus as she wondered with dread what would be the next thing to fall from his lips. The thoughts accumulated, knotting her stomach into a heavy lump. She brought a hand to her mouth, nauseous, and sank to her knees. The grass gave way beneath her; it was soft, but far from comforting. Like a scared child, she took the edge of her cloak and covered her face, doubling over in fear, wanting to sink, wanting to die.

The wind was shuttered from her, and a strong, broad hand was laid gently on her back, stroking her through the coarse, woolen cloak as one would soothe a fretful child. It was a clumsy gesture, thoroughly inadequate to quell the turmoil that racked her. She gave a short, mournful laugh.

"Andromache."

Her name still sounded slow and unsure on his lips; he rarely ventured to say it outside their bedchamber in the dark watches of the night. She wondered if she would again hear the many inflections of it that Hector had uttered over the course of their marriage: the sharp four jabs spoken in surprise or joy; the undulating whisper of fulfilled desire or marvel; the leaden beat of fatigue; of weary resignation at a wife's emotional twists.

She could hear the latter now, if only a little.

She pulled the cloak from her head and looked up at him anxiously, saw that he was kneeling before her, sheltering her from the wind. "It gives me more pleasure to hear you say my true name than envisioning I hold Troy in my hands again."

Eudorus smiled wanly, but it slowly faded. "I want to believe that." He sighed and lowered himself fully beside her, giving another sigh as the cool grass met his skin. He drew up his knees and locked his arms around them.

Andromache straightened and glanced at him quickly before following his gaze, a contemplation of the river that ripped before them. The sun was high, but there was little warmth in it. She saw gooseflesh crawling down his arms and she slid her cloak around him as he had done with his robe around her shivering, naked body the night they had knelt besides Astyanax's cradle.

The gesture stirred him and he turned to look at her. His eyes were not entirely trusting, but the invitation for her to earn it was clear. "If you never discussed anything secretly with Menesthius about murdering Agamemnon, should I know about something? Is there some plot that could fail? I don't want to discover it when the consequences of that failure suddenly appear outside my door. Kallisto is entirely right in that fear."

Andromache met his gaze before returning her attention to the river.

"I shall not be angry," he said, "but I think it is time I know the truth. Whatever that word means. I am not so certain anymore."

"It is moments such as this where I wonder how a man like you followed Achilles as loyally as you did. You are as calm as I know he was rash, intemperate, and cruel."

"It seems I was rash to think I had seen the last of Troy," Eudorus said. "But it appears that is not yet over for me."

Andromache drew closer against him and he took the edge of her cloak and wrapped it around him more fully.

"It will be over," she said. "It will be."

"At least when Achilles fell in love with that priestess, he knew who she was. He was rash and blind in many things, but not in that." His brow furrowed, eyes fixed on his hands that twisted each other in agitation. She saw his throat clench, wished she could divine his thoughts.

"Eudorus--"

"Where is that priestess?" he asked. "The one who sent Agamemnon to his first death?"

"Briseis? I wish I knew. She left us with a young man who seemed eager to care for her. She was grieving mightily for Achilles and though I tried, I think she felt my sympathy was lacking."

Eudorus' hands did not stop in their ceaseless, straining wringing. "I was horrified when Achilles returned to camp, with Hector behind him--"

"Stop…don't…" she begged.

Eudorus made no move to comfort her, but he left the thought unfinished. "He was blind, as you say. He was ever so with Patroclus."

"As was Hector with his brother."

"And what of that boy? Paris?"

Andromache flinched. Was he going to question her on everyone who escaped that day? "He was there," she said guardedly. "On the beach the day you took me. Hidden in a cave with Helen."

Eudorus made a noise of surprise. "He failed to risk himself for you? After what his brother did to save his sorry hide in combat with Menelaus?"

Andromache nodded miserably, then checked herself. No, Paris had changed, if only a little. It was Helen who, according to Paris, was the same as the day she last saw her. "The cowardice came from Helen, I suspect."

Silence again reigned over the knoll. Andromache decided to let him ponder in peace, wary of volunteering any more information. She realized her mistake when he sighed sharply and spoke with slow clarity. His eyes never left the river.

"Kallisto said nothing, but I sent her away before she could seize upon it," he said. "She would have beaten an answer from you, but I will simply ask. It is probably nothing, but you cried that Helen was scheming to secure Troy? How do you know of this?"

"Because it is Helen!" she immediately replied, not liking how shrill her voice sounded. "I can hardly expect her to calmly submit to being without power, not after having reigned in Sparta as queen and Troy as princess." She wanted to add that the sojourn in Egypt, enjoying Pharaoh's splendor, had no doubt whetted her appetite even further. "Kallisto seems to have confused me with Helen, for what ambitions Kallisto believes I cherish, I assure her she is describing Helen."

He smiled again, but it was as wan as before. "Andromache, if there is one thing I have discovered, it is that you are a woman of endless surprises and vast talents. Who else could have so convincingly begged a cold mercenary to spare a useless infant? I always intended to carry out my threat the next day, and then the next. Something always stayed me until I could no longer bear to contemplate it. And now I wonder…"

"You and Kallisto both wonder about many things," she chided, laying her cheek against his shoulder.

"There is so much more about you I yearn to know. I would rather I learn from your lips than from another's."

Andromache harnessed her breath, refused to make it come unnaturally fast. "What is it you wish to learn?"

"The Fates will see to Agamemnon, but if you have tried to hurry him towards his end, I want to hear it. Now."

His voice was still as soft and mild as it ever was when they were alone, but it was a clear ultimatum. He had already asked her to speak whatever truths were still locked inside her, was still unsatisfied at the feints and deflections she had thus far given him.

She had no one but herself to blame. Her first confession could not be stemmed. More had to ensue. One secret of such importance meant that there were likely others. Her name and past guaranteed it. She would forever be a font of suspicion, and Kallisto had succeeded in making her look guilty of harboring unspoken knowledge.

Regrettably, the old woman was right about one thing: lack of preparation would mean lives lost. If any danger beat its way up into the hills of Phthia, it would be the result of Paris' failure. And she would be to blame.

But she could not reveal the truth about Paris. For the greater good, Paris would be a small sacrifice. She could imagine that Eudorus would assure her he would let events unfold as they might and only look to his own defenses, yet silently send someone to Mycenae to remove Paris from his purpose through fair means or foul. Kallisto would certainly advocate such a course, and the wisdom of it was undeniable, but family loyalty to Priam's house - past as it was - was not easily tossed aside in unquestioning favor of current ties.

"Agamemnon's life is in the hands of the Fates," Andromache replied levelly. "If he dies, I had no part in it other than fervently hoping it came to pass. Still, misdirected revenge might come upon us and we must guard against being taken by surprise." Feeling she had steeled herself adequately, she tilted her head upwards and found Eudorus watching her intently.

She wanted to kiss him, assure him, but it would speak of manipulation. Such clumsy tricks had been attempted early in her marriage and found lacking in art. Hector had once told her she was a poor coquette, although he confessed that her actions had a certain pleasure about them. That had been a game in those long ago, happier days, but there was no place for games now.

Eudorus' gaze remained intense for some time before he looked away. "You must think me the easiest fooled of men," he said, and Andromache heard embarrassed self-recrimination, rather than accusation, seep into his voice. "How blind I am to what exists under my nose when it is not charging at me with sword drawn and baying for my blood."

"But I am no enemy skulking under your watch," she said. "No longer, and I have not considered you such for a blessed long time. I deceived you only because I was afraid for Astyanax."

"I would not have harmed him," Eudorus insisted.

"Even if you would have, in those early days Kallisto referred to, I understand. My boy would not have been the first baby condemned for the accident of his birth. Hector and I knew the risks. Troy had seen violence and regicide before, and we knew it was likely to see it again, in our lifetime or another's."

"And Helen ensured that it was in your lifetime. You would still be in Troy, with Hector, had she been content with her lot."

She was silent, uncertain if he was testing her, waiting to see if she would protest foolishly that it would not be so. He wanted truth; he would have it, at least in this matter.

"Aye, perhaps," Andromache said sadly. "I loved him, loved him with an ache that seemed to come from a deep well within me. It was so bottomless, so infinite." She watched him as she spoke, saw his jaw work subtly in tense control. She brought her hand to his cheek and turned his head insistently. "You need not feel you must compare yourself to him. If you have done so these past wonderful weeks, I wish you to stop. A better man I never knew, yes, but only of Troy."

Her fingers stroked his beard and, for the first time, she noticed just how fast it was beginning to grey. "You're carrying so many worries, and I would have none of them due to the ghost of my Hector. Think of our home and our love instead."

She let her hand fall slowly from his face, down his chest, and grasped him lightly around the wrist.

"The gods saw fit to give me shadow, and I accepted it. I bore it as well as I could. I wept, I feared the dangers I thought you threatened. But that shadow passed into sun, as all sorrows eventually do. Why was I ever frightened? Eventually I came to love you." She guided Eudorus' hand to her stomach. It was still smooth and taut, but there had been signs that she now recognized. It was early yet, but her instincts told her she had guessed true.

"And, my love, I think the gods have seen fit to give us a child."

* * * * * * * * * * *

_Two chapters left. Three, at most. Odds are by year's end, this fic will see "The End." (At last!)  
_

_I hope you enjoyed reading! I like to read, too, so shoot me a review. ;-)  
_


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

Paris ran a hand over his beard, fingers idly scratching at a white scar that ran diagonal from jaw to cheekbone. It still itched from time to time, and in moments of deep thought or duress, he often caught himself worrying at it, this souvenir of his travel from Phthia to Mycenae.

While no stranger to treacherous terrain -- he had scaled mountains and crossed barren plains from Troy to Egypt with barely a scratch -- he had finally found his wayfaring nemesis on a rain-soaked hillside pass nearly halfway to Mycenae. The slippery shale had sent him tumbling, laying his cheek open on a sharp, protruding rock and smashing loose a back tooth in the process.

It was an inauspicious moment in a tiring journey and he tried not to let the ill luck disturb him overly much, but he had no companion to distract him and his mind periodically pondered whether it was merely accident or an omen.

He began to heal quickly, for which he was grateful and heartened by, and a stray glance in a puddle of water hinted at the makings of a rather decorative scar. If he were to slip into Mycenae and walk about unrecognized, any disfigurement would complement the unruly beard and untended locks that was the sum of his physical camouflage.

He felt confident that the combination would be ample disguise; there was nothing of the studiously groomed prince about him any longer. Even his posture had lost much of its jaunty, lordly air. He ached excruciatingly, his body still clinging to a chill from sleeping in the embrace of Nature or feebly seeking warmth in livestock huts when darkness fell and rising before shepherds appeared to tend their flocks in the early morning hours.

It was a fugitive's existence, but his heart oddly grew lighter the closer he drew to Mycenae. Dear, fretful Andromache would call it reckless and dangerously confident, but he had not felt so alive in a great while. This was indeed his moment to act, relying on himself and himself alone.

It was a test, perhaps the ultimate test of his life. Even facing Menelaus in personal battle was not so daunting. Then, Hector had been by his side, and he had not been forced to either fight and die, or flee in disgrace until the Spartan cut him down. Hector had intervened and taken the wrath of Agamemnon upon himself.

Now, there was no one. No Hector, no stout walls to his back, no dutiful love and encouragement from a city's populace. He was very much alone in this and it was immensely freeing. His mind, his strength, his will were his only tools, and there were no duties, no sentinels looming over him. If he succeeded, excellent; if not, he had valiantly tried. He felt like the lamented Paris of old, but with wiser confidence supplanting the rash tendencies that had controlled him in the past. He wanted Troy back, perhaps even more so than Andromache did.

Not perhaps. He _did._ Andromache had found peace with her Myrmidon among the hills and seemed to want to leave strife behind. He could not blame her. Astyanax as heir would forever mark him as threat. What mother wanted that? There was nothing of the ruthless dowager in Andromache, only maternal fear. She wanted her son, her life and, apparently, the love and devotion of a good man. Simple pleasures for a simple, good woman who had enjoyed them in the warm, secure embrace of his brother. How different from Helen's expectations and desires! How different from his own.

" 'Xandros!"

Paris jerked his head up and saw a woman gesturing to him cheerily.

"Come here!" she cried.

Paris pulled himself to his feet and clambered up the shallow slope of close-cropped grass and bristly brush. Half-grown lambs scattered before him and the woolly herd bleated at the disruption. He grinned at the burst of chaos and made straightway for his hostess, a widow of Andromache's age but with few of her physical features.

A short, sturdy woman with black hair and penetrating golden eyes, Creusa scratched out a proud existence on a large plot of land that overlooked the palace of Agamemnon, seat of the formidable House of Atreus. She had some skills in herbs, laundered a share of the royal linens, and was ready to aid anyone who came to her door with a tale of woe or outstretched hand.

The latter was how Paris had come to know her. On a cold and rainy windswept night, he had staggered into her cottage with a desperate tale of sorrow; he knew Agamemnon dwelt in the immediate valley below and this woman's home would provide a perfect place from which to observe and plan. So he had lingered in the elements until suitably disheveled and knocked on her door as thunder cracked and lightning flashed. There had been no hesitation; he had been ushered inside, warmed, fed, and, ultimately, adopted like a stray pup.

Although Paris appreciated Creusa for untold reasons, her true value to both her king and those about her was her flock of sheep. She tended it lovingly and the meat was the envy of any who had the good fortune to taste it. Despite the acclaim her sheep brought to one's table, she was adequately compensated for her stock but nothing more. Still, she did not resent the slight; the honor of being of some value to her king rather than a nuisance, and therefore unmolested, seemed to be all the extra payment she required. That she had been allowed to remain on her husband's land, rather than punished for her childless state and remanded into the care of remote family also deepened her joy.

She smiled at him now, arms folded across her ample bosom. Three of her front teeth were missing, but Paris thought it detracted little from her peculiar beauty. The woman was good-hearted and not quickly suspicious, useful traits all in order to successfully stake a position so close to Agamemnon's palace. Yet he truly did enjoy Creusa's company, appreciated her dedication to hard work and took pleasure in all she had to say about her cantankerous royal neighbors. Despite her gratitude to them, she was not their blind defender. She was never at a loss for stories or opinions about their behavior.

"What are you grinning about?" she demanded jovially.

"Nothing," Paris replied. "Only counting myself fortunate that you saw fit to give a drowned rat like me a roof over its head." He gave her a bashful smile, his brown eyes limpid with gratitude.

"You have such a way about you," she giggled. "Were my husband still alive, I'd have you teach him to properly speak to a woman. He was ever a cripple when it came to compliments." She sobered and pointed down the hill at Agamemnon's palace. Creusa's land was so close, the vantage so well placed, that it was possible to see people moving about the grounds between palace and fortified walls. While the patterns on some of the women's dresses were not discernable, Paris was able to distinguish oranges from yellows quite handily.

"Leda was just here," she went on. "She says a ewe is needed for Agamemnon's table tomorrow night. Some lord by the name of Aegisthus is being honored and the queen is bullish intent on a full and rich table. I want you to take it there in the morning. They'll be expecting you at the gate, so state your business and they will send you along. You know how it all goes."

"Am I to see Agamemnon this time?" Paris asked, continuing to smile but feeling impatience grip him. He had delivered rams, ewes and lambs before for either the dinner table or the temple altars to sacrifice, but had yet to even witness Agamemnon, let alone be in close enough quarters to slay him and escape. He was merely a shepherd, hustled in and out with nary a fare thee well. He continued to bide his time and, luckily, Creusa was of such pleasant disposition that his frustration and anxiety was wisely tempered until pragmatism trumped impulse.

Creusa shook her head. "Unless Agamemnon greets you to take possession of the sheep himself, I highly doubt it," she said. "But do try to linger awhile and listen carefully. Leda hears much from working in the kitchen, but too much knowledge can't hurt a soul." With that, she flashed a gap-toothed grin and bent to pick up a large reed basket of dirty linen.

"I'm off to the river," she said. "I'll leave it to you to pick the unfortunate ewe. I trust your judgment." She ambled off, the basket bouncing sluggishly on one broad hip.

Paris watched her leave before he turned toward the calmed flock of sheep. His shepherd's eye had been quickly re-sharpened once in Creusa's employ and, while his days as a tender of flocks on Mount Ida sometimes seemed a lifetime ago, it was knowledge not easily forgotten. He knew a good piece of flesh when he saw it.

He wandered back down into the hollow, his eyes scanning the herd. He bent down and thrust his hand into a puddle of cold muck and water and quickly slapped the rump of the most succulent ewe in the flock, marking it for the morrow. The creature blatted in surprise and leaped away. Paris laughed as he retook his shepherd's position against a large rock that had gamely tried to absorb warmth from the winter sun. He reclined, loose-limbed and in good spirits.

It had been five months since he left Phthia, two of them had been spent on Crusa's charity while inching closer to his quarry. There was every expectation that tomorrow would yield no greater chance of gaining further entry into the palace, but Paris told himself he had nothing to lose by being optimistic.

* * *

"Leda! What is wrong?"

Creusa rubbed the remainders of sleep from her eyes and stared in surprise at the woman who stood outside the door. Leda was shifting from one foot to the other in a bid to keep herself warm in the crisp morning air.

Paris peered over the edge of his blanket from his rope bed in the corner of Creusa's small home. He made no attempt to pretend sleep. Creusa's surprise had been so loud that it would have woken even the soundest sleeper. Besides, dawn was beginning to break and he was due to rise soon; if he did not do so, Creusa was not averse to kicking the bed to wake him up.

Leda looked over Creusa's shoulder at Paris and lowered her voice, but not enough.

"I--I am fearful, Creusa," she stammered. "I just saw…"

Creusa grabbed Leda by the shoulder and hauled her inside. The kitchen maid stumbled into the room and stood looked around, flustered and mute. She looked askance at Paris and her manner reminded him of Andromache's nervous little slave.

Creusa went to the small table near the hearth and lit a candle. Although the interior was beginning to brighten, it was still dark enough so that Paris had to strain his eyes to discern Leda's expression. The impending conversation between Creusa and Leda would likely not require him, and Creusa was certainly within her rights to order him outside and begin work. But his curiosity was heightened.

Leda did not normally come to Creusa's home unless in the light of day. She was visibly distressed by something _there_, in Agamemnon's palace. He would strive to stay and learn what it was.

He threw back the blanket, one hand reaching for his tunic. He heard a shallow, surprised gasp as Leda glimpsed his body in the dim, dawn light. He rose and drew the non-descript garment over his head slowly.

"Eh, out with you!" Creusa exclaimed when she turned around and saw Paris' lithe form on display. "Leda's ruffled enough without you making it worse!"

"No, no, he can stay," Leda demurred, turning to Creusa, but not before giving Paris a shy, regretful look. Upon the older woman's knowing sniff, Leda rushed on. " 'Xandros will be going to the palace today, yes? He's bound to see some turmoil and it's best he's prepared."

Creusa looked doubtful, but gestured at him to sit down; which he did, taking a seat upon his bed and crossing his legs, attentive.

Leda fluttered onto the crude bench at the table and clasped her hands in front of her. "Creusa," she began, "I caught the queen in a tryst."

Creusa's eyes widened. "When? Now?"

"Just now," Leda affirmed miserably. She rubbed her hands together slowly, her eyes riveted on the motion.

"Well, where was it?" Creusa demanded when Leda was not forthcoming with details. "If you don't speak up, I'll have to assume she defiled Agamemnon's bed as he lay next to her!"

Leda shook her head. "It was in the garden grove, a remote corner, where I planted mint. No one else likes it brewed, so I was told to keep it there instead if I wanted it." At Creusa's impatient wave of a hand, Leda hastily finished, "I woke sick and went to get some to eat. Klytemnestra had retreated there with…with Lord Aegisthus."

"Were you seen?"

When Leda's face crumbled and she threw her head down on her arms, Creusa gave an exasperated sigh.

"Oh, Leda…"

Paris bolted from his bed and took a seat next to Leda, one hand stroking her back encouragingly. Creusa glared at him suspiciously, but then she shrugged and gestured for him to continue. The girl was distraught and needed some reassurance, and Creusa seemed inclined to think Leda was more likely to respond at the touch of a handsome man than a brusque old widow.

Paris guessed correctly; Leda lifted her head and looked at him, sniffing back tears that had yet to flow disgracefully. She had calmed, and he felt a subtle pressure as she leaned invisibly against his hand.

All three jumped when a sharp rapping was tattooed on the door. Leda looked to Paris, her large eyes filling with fright. He smiled in encouragement, although he felt a knot beginning to twist in the pit of his stomach.

Creusa heaved herself from the table and went to the door, taking a deep breath. None of them had any doubts that the unseen visitor was connected to Leda's inadvertent spying.

Creusa slowly opened the door. Standing there, stiff and arch, was Klytemnestra's personal confidante and servant, Melaina.

Paris did not know her personally, but he knew of her. Creusa despised her and was not shy in her choice of words when Melaina came up in conversation. A mistress to Hyrtius, Agamemnon's affable emissary, Melaina had none of her lover's easygoing temper and all of the excess ambition Nature had not seen fit to give him. Her status as slave and concubine was no impediment; she ingratiated herself to Klytemnestra, lamented wrongs and encouraged grudges. In her, Klytemnestra found an eager ear and kindred spirit. Within a short time, Melaina became untouchable and it was an immunity the woman savored and wielded unchecked.

"Leda!" she snapped, not giving Creusa the courtesy of a greeting. "The queen wishes your presence. There is much to do today to ready for tonight's feast. No time to be running about!"

Leda leaned even further against Paris, but it was not out of some desire to feel his touch more firmly. It was instead a reflexive move of one afraid, flinching from the threatened punishment Melaina represented.

"Melaina," Leda begged, "I shall not tell--"

"Enough!" Melaina's bright, keen eyes went to Creusa, then settled on Paris and he was certain he saw a glimmer of fear in the formidable depths. So, he thought, the queen thinks she has truly misstepped and is afraid.

Leda sniffed again, dread of a beating or worse punishment no doubt filling her mind. She rose slowly and advanced to the door as one already found guilty and condemned.

"You," Melaina said, pointing to Paris. "You were to bring a ewe, correct? Step to with it, for I shall not bring it. I'll have nothing to do with the stringy beasts."

Melaina's provocative unpleasantness found an opposing force in Creusa. The more peevish and abusive the one became, the more beatific the widow's smile, the rosier her cheer.

"Always a pleasure, Melaina," she beamed. "You'll make a queen yet."

"Hah!" was the sarcastic reply. "I _won't_ take that as the insult you intend, Creusa. You should have known me when I was stashed in the backwoods with that Myrmidon of Achilles, Eudorus. And I thought being his leman was as far as I could reach! How wrong I was! Ah well, he's pretty content with that Trojan puff, I hear."

"The widow Xuthos has mentioned?" Creusa asked, the prospect of gossip stilling her tongue from her previous needling. "You are quite close to him, I gather."

"He has not left his friends in Phthia behind and he shares with me the news he hears," Melaina replied smugly. "A well-traveled soul like myself always wants to keep up with matters."

"Oh, and well-traveled you are, Melaina!" Creusa agreed with a vigorous nod. "The ceilings you've seen, and me aught but one!"

Melaina's eyes narrowed, the set of her mouth viciously tight. She turned to Leda. "Come on, girl! Stop your sniveling! There's work to do."

Leda fell into step behind Melaina, her pace a wary mix of reluctance and anxious desire to hurry in a bid to prevent further punishment from raining down upon her unlucky head.

Paris rose. He needed to follow as well. Melaina had already left the doorway and was waiting at Creusa's gate with ill-concealed ire at any delay. As Paris walked past Creusa, she grabbed him by the arm.

"Watch yourself," she whispered. "Make sure you don't get between a blade and its target. I sense there will be plenty of knives flying today, from eyes if not from hands. What Leda saw does not bode well."

"I'm well-acquainted with the like, Creusa," he said, summoning a smile. "I've been the recipient of dagger glares myself once or twice, and for similar reasons. I was quite a handsome boy at one time and often in trouble."

She patted his arm. "Stay safe. I'm almost afraid to let you go. Leda, too. If that place gobbles you both up, I'll never forgive myself."

"Why? Afraid you irked Melaina too much and she will take out her anger on us?" he joked.

Creusa's lips curved into an involuntary impish smile. "She's such a braggart. Little does she know how Xuthos laughs at her pretensions behind her back. One would think from the way she talks that Eudorus fellow was besotted with her, but Xuthos says he tumbled her but once before turning to the 'Trojan puff,' as Melaina calls her."

"I almost want to meet the woman, if she has or could cause Melaina some grief," Paris grinned, knowing the thought of gentle Andromache instilling jealousy in another woman would have amused his brother greatly.

"A beautiful woman, if Xuthos speaks true," Creusa said, "and not even a Trojan, a breed Melaina despises, but a close neighbor to the city. But that matters little to Klytemnestra's loyal dog out there. Anyone within spitting distance of Troy is fair game for hating, especially if they took something she felt was hers. She has Hyrtius and more sway than one of her temperament should enjoy, but being kicked out of a mercenary's bed for a near-Trojan sits less well with her than it would others more accepting of the way men's hearts work."

"How much _do_ you know about what happens in the world?" Paris cajoled. "Mycenae…Phthia… Are you going to tell me what Pharaoh of Egypt had for breakfast yesterday?"

Creusa laughed, her nose wrinkling in mirth. "I just might know that by the time you get back!" She sobered and sent him out through the door with a light smack on his rump. "Just make certain you _do_ come back."

Paris hastened to the livestock and slipped a rope halter around the marked ewe with expert grace. He joined Leda and they trailed in Melaina's wake down the steep hill to Agamemnon's palace.

Dawn had firmly broken and the palace and surrounding village was already stirring. Agamemnon's hunting kennel surged with barks at passersby and Paris was reminded yet again of the glorious cacophony that had resounded throughout Troy every morning, the noise a daily affirmation of its vitality, its strong collection of hearts and minds and bodies.

He wanted that experience again, to step out onto a balcony and look down into a city, a small kingdom that was his.

Each step that brought him closer to Agamemnon's palace created a delicious tightening in his stomach. The earlier tense anxiety, borne of Melaina's harsh anger towards the helpless Leda, was fading as his mind became consumed instead with his own cares and aims. It did not last.

A soft hand fumbled at his and he looked down to see that Leda was surreptitiously trying to clasp his hand. She kept pace close to him, the fluttering folds of her gown masking this attempt at reassuring contact.

"Leda?" he whispered.

"I'm going to be beaten," she replied, her voice thin, quavering. "Tell me I won't cry and beg. I don't want to be a coward again. The last time, I disgraced myself."

She looked at him, her face pale except for a flushed spot staining each cheek. Her eyes had already acquired a glassy sheen, her upper lip beaded with perspiration. He could feel her shaking through her fingers.

He felt his own fear and terror when at the mercy of Menelaus, the memory causing his throat to tighten and burn. Klytemnestra and Melaina were poor counterparts to the Spartan king's fury that had been unleashed upon him, but he knew her fear, understood it all too well.

"You won't cry," he told her levelly, giving her a warm, confident smile. "You won't beg. You will be stronger than I could ever be, Leda."

She stared at him, as if contemplating whether he meant it or was simply lying to encourage her.

She did not need doubt, for then surely she would break. Paris squeezed her fingers and leaned down to give her a quick kiss on her trembling lips.

"It is only pain, Leda," he whispered. "That is fleeting when compared to other sorrows."

"Such as?" she asked. The tip of her tongue nervously played along her lips, as if drinking in whatever strength his kiss might have possessed.

"Be brave for me today, and I will tell you tonight."

* * *

_OK, I lied. There will be more than 1 chapter left after this one. This chapter wrote itself pretty quickly (at least by my standards) and I found it growing fast. So I'll have to split it in two. Paris actually became interesting to write, damn his golden boy hide. He's trying his best to charm me into giving him a happy ending._

_I hope you've enjoyed this chapter and thanks for sticking around! It __**will**__ end, never fear!_


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

"Mama? Mama?"

_Oh, what __**now**__, Chrysothemis? Why must you always sound like a wilting flower?_

"Mother!"

_Elektra, that snippy tongue will find itself detached from your mouth one day!_

Klytemnestra snapped her head up from her contemplation of the jeweled rings that bedecked each of her slim, tapered fingers. One ring, the newest decoration, had been of particular comfort. Anxiety about her discovery in the garden by that simple kitchen maid had been working her nerves into a bloody, throbbing mass ever since she had sent Melaina forth to fetch the frightened little mouse. The sun had barely risen, and Melaina had not yet returned. Until she did, it was vital she keep her mind occupied with other things. And, lo, what had been delivered? Before her stood her two daughters, young and willowy in matching shifts of muslin dyed deep saffron.

Time to be a mother, like it or no.

Chrysothemis, the younger and softer-spoken of the two, had her hands clasped demurely in front of her. She smiled meekly when she realized she finally had her mother's attention, a smile that soon vanished when Klytemnestra sighed sharply in distracted frustration, at both the interruption and her inability to put the discovery of her and Aegisthus aside and think no more upon it.

"Yes? What is it?" she asked in bald impatience.

Chrysothemis' eyes grew large. She was ever quick to take affront, but it was never childish, silly ire, but rather, a shamed disappointment that she had unwittingly irritated someone.

Her earlier resignation to delve into her maternal reservoir was shoved aside. Klytemnestra had no time for such nonsense, coddling the feelings of a young girl. Seated as she was on her formal chair in her chamber, with one elbow leaning heavily on the chair arm, she no doubt looked like some formidable, brooding king. She certainly felt a weight upon her.

She stared at her daughter levelly, and Chrysothemis' head bowed slightly, her halo of curls the color of darkened wheat falling, dejected, about her temples.

"We--we wanted to go to the marketplace today," she murmured. "Elektra says she's heard a man is selling wildcat cubs and I want one for my birthday." She turned to her sister. "Right? That _is_ what you heard?"

"Among other things."

Elektra's thin mouth, nearly a perfect twin of Klytemnestra's own, curved imperceptibly. It was a hard mouth, a rigid slash of pale pink set above a chin that jutted with pride and quick temper. It was not the mouth of a child, a girl in the first flower of womanhood. Apart from the mouth, she was wholly her father's daughter, born with a suspicious mind. And greedy.

Aye, Klytemnestra thought. Greedy, but not for gold. Elektra drank of Agamemnon's affection like a desert wanderer water, was never sated and, like that water, her father's love was as rare as an oasis in a wasteland. Like the foolish chit she was, Elektra sought to gain as much of that love as she could, dogging her father's heels like an eager puppy. She had always done so; never had she looked to her mother for affection or confidence. Always to her father, that blustering, war-obsessed, wenching pig--

"Are you going to be _occupied_ today, Mother?" Elektra asked, her voice a breath shy of outright accusation.

Klytemnestra straightened and coolly regarded her daughter. "Yes, I will," she replied. "Your father and I are still searching for another husband for you."

Elektra's eyes widened and Klytemnestra felt a crow of glee pettily tickle her insides. If there was one thing that could cow the child, it was the threat of being removed from her father's embrace.

"Father will find me a good man," Elektra replied bravely, her voice containing barely a tremor. "He once wanted me for Achilles. He has said so. He would not want me to marry just anyone."

"Yes," Klytemnestra allowed, "and then you were offered to Achilles' captain. Brave and accomplished he certainly is, but he is not _quite_ Achilles, wouldn't you say? And I see you are still here. Your prospects are growing progressively dim, sweeting."

"They shall not be so forever!" Elektra countered with growing confidence. "I am only glad that the Myrmidon refused me because his blood is not as high as I deserve."

Klytemnestra hated feeling so vicious towards her eldest daughter, but the poison against Agamemnon was mounting daily and had increased to almost incalculable heights upon the arrival of Aegisthus into her life. A simple visit between lords, and what had it wrought? A dizzying passion that had awakened something long thought dormant within her. She could recall all the times of similar pleasure with Agamemnon on one hand and still have fingers free to weave. The intensity she felt whenever she looked upon Aegisthus pushed her ever closer to an insanely devouring need. She had him, yes; but it was furtive, hidden, shameful. He was beautiful, and she wanted their passion to be shown in the light of day, not expressed against a cold garden wall in the protective cover of night.

Yet she could not vent her rage, her frustrations, against her husband and not expect retribution of some devious sort. But Elektra was so alike that she was beginning to see father and daughter as one and the same. One was impregnable; the other was not.

"The Myrmidon turned down a twelve-year old royal bride," Klytemnestra reminded her. "Few men would have done so, and none with any sense or what makes them a man! So either he is a complete dolt -- unlikely! -- or there is something significantly lacking in you!"

Elektra's grey, drab eyes flared with remarkable brightness but just as suddenly died into patient, resentful embers. "Come, Chrysothemis," she said, taking her sister by the hand and tugging her towards the door. "Let us go to market before the cubs grow and devour their master."

Chrysothemis staggered as her feet seemed unable to move on their own. She stumbled after Elektra, casting a wide-eyed look at her mother as she vanished out through the door.

Klytemnestra balled her fists tightly, her rings biting painfully into her flesh. She pressed her fists against her head, her cheek, the jewels and polished stones doing their utmost to cool her flushed skin. How she wanted to hit something! Hit _him!_ So tense was she that the ropes of beads and bronze she wore about her neck clinked and jangled dissonantly to reflect her agitation.

She must calm herself. When Melaina finally appeared, she did not want to be thinking unclearly. She closed her eyes, summoning the image of Aegisthus behind her lids -- a balm, a promise of future happiness. It had to happen; it _must_. She could not endure Agamemnon a moment longer.

She would not worry about Elektra possibly knowing the truth of her and Aegisthus. Even if she did and went to Agamemnon with the gossip, there was solace in the fact that Elektra's perceived bond with her father was, in reality, almost completely one-sided. Oh, Agamemnon certainly cooed to his eldest daughter, but it was impossible for her _dear_ husband to say anything without weighing its benefit to him, to do anything without considering the same.

When he told Elektra how pretty she was, how her red-russet hair surely made Aphrodite lament her own bland, blond tresses, Klytemnestra knew what hung behind the honeyed words: treaties, alliances, the spread of Mycenaean blood into other parts of Greece to bind all pieces to him, the One King. All those Agamemnon could achieve by the simple sale of Elektra now, and Chrysothemis later, to men with wealth of gold and arms.

The proposal with the Myrmidon had failed. Her husband would have to mend his self-inflicted rift with Achilles' men through other means, unless Chrysothemis would be a more attractive wife for the Myrmidon in a few years. Or, Orestes was a handsome boy and could certainly stand to learn some tricks of the martial trade. What better teachers than the Myrmidons? Perhaps her sweet husband had misread this Eudorus' proclivities, instead staking his hopes on a conventional proposal!

Klytemnestra began to laugh, a soft, giddy chuckle born of stress and lack of sleep that soon swelled into a breathless laugh of sweet release and delight at her absurd thoughts about Orestes.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow fall across the outer hall outside her door. She straightened. It had to be Melaina. Surely she could not have lost herself! Or was Time only passing inexorably slow?

When Aegisthus appeared, Klytemnestra gave a breathy, gasp of joy and her cheeks flushed bright and warm in remembrance of the stolen hour they had enjoyed in the garden in the waning night. Yes, it had been shameful to be pressed against the wall and taken like some alley whore, muffling their moans in each others' mouths and groping at each other in a lust born of pure, raw need.

She still felt full -- of him, of her drive to never know what it would be like to ever live without him.

She held out her hand, ostensibly that of a queen asking for formal greeting, but her eyes issued another invitation.

Aegisthus shut the door behind him and hooked it shut with the leather thong. Slowly, deliberately, he knelt before her and grasped her hand. His full, sensuous mouth lightly brushed her knuckles before his lips captured one of them in a soft, lightly sucking kiss. His full head of flaxen hair was dipped in enticing obeisance, and Klytemnestra gave over to impulse. She settled her hand upon that soft, Apollo-like crown and began to stroke the curls, her fingers dipping beneath the waves and gliding deliciously amongst the strands. The fire that had ignited in her stomach the first time she had seen him flared anew. Her hand slid from his head and the fingers dipped beneath the collar of his robe. She ran her hand possessively across the bronzed, taut skin, shoving the robe from his shoulders.

"My queen is hungry again," Aegisthus murmured, looking up. The playful smile on his lips invited her to continue as he rose more fully on his knees. Klytemnestra obeyed, placing her palms flat against his chest, stroking the smooth planes with a look of rapturous marvel hooding her eyes.

"Agamemnon is hairy as a beast," she said, her nails digging gently against his flesh. "But you, my Aegisthus, are as beautiful as a statue."

"Only warmer, I hope," he said with a grin.

She gripped his shoulders and drew him forward, spreading her legs so he could come even closer. She glanced up quickly at the door and stared at the latch, as if willing it to remain forever closed.

"We need not ever fear being caught," he whispered.

Klytemnestra's feline eyes slowly returned to Aegisthus and regarded him for some time. "You are plotting something."

"I plot nothing except what my queen commands me."

"Indeed? And have I commanded you unknowingly?"

Aegisthus reached down, his fingers lightly brushing her bare ankles before he slid his hands along her calves, over her knees, along her thighs. Her gown rustled from the movement beneath, coupling with the faster, heavier breaths coming from Klytemnestra's throat as her skin leaped at his touch. Her thighs parted even more, and the small chamber was filled with a sharp gasp when his thumb began to tease and play with her, tending to her most vulnerable and forgotten garden.

"I await your order to cease," he purred.

"Damn you," she muttered, clasping her hand over his and surrendering to all the sensations that saw fit to assail her.

Images danced beneath her lids, visions that should have frightened her but only excited her more. As Aegisthus' soft and skillful fingers stimulated her, her mind raced and embarked on a release of another sort.

A bath, steaming and hot. Making the blood pound and flow freely like water.

Whorls of red mingling intimately, carried along in the subtle currents of the tub.

Her husband bearing that same smug grin, but this one on his throat as a curtain of life runs over his chest. Life, that stubborn life, draining finally, as he had drained hers over the course of their wretched marriage.

Her cry was feral, the sweetest release she had ever experienced. Weak and spent, she leaned forward and folded her arms around Aegisthus' neck. Her lips caressed his cheek and his flaxen curls were reassuring against her skin. When she felt his fingers withdraw, she gave a small moan of regret, but her disappointment was fleeting.

"Aegisthus," she whispered, "your queen has a command that will make you king."

Aegisthus nodded, fully understanding. "We do it today."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Upon entering the palace grounds, Paris felt the tenseness in the air that Leda had hinted might be palpable. Whether it was from gathering knowledge of the queen's infidelity with the Lord Aegisthus, or the continuing tension created by a fractious and unhappy family, that was still unclear. Paris hoped he would be able to determine which one it was by the time his lowly shepherd self was ejected through the gates.

Melaina gripped Leda firmly around the wrist and turned to Paris. "She would normally take the ewe to the kitchen, but she has other priorities now! You take it yourself and be quick about it." With a sharp stab of her finger, she pointed towards a short el jutting from the south side of the palace.

"Kitchens are there," she said. "Be off with you."

Leda stumbled after Melaina, and Paris felt his chest clench in dread and fear for the girl. The look on her face was one of utter terror and continued to linger in his mind long after she had been dragged into the palace.

He fidgeted with the rope nervously and looked around. Now that he had entered and was alone and untended, he could easily slip into a dark corner and skulk about. At least Melaina's foul temper had come in useful.

The ewe bleated softly and Paris looked down at it. "There are too many things being led to the slaughter here," he muttered, "but there's little hope for you, regardless. Come on." He pulled on the rope and the ewe obediently followed.

The passing of the ewe went smoothly and Paris detected only a simmering level of tension among the women and girls scurrying around the hot inferno of hearths and ovens. Working in a room that resembled Hades' domain would fray anyone's nerves. There was enough distraction so that when one of the scullery girls took the rope, he was able to amble off without attracting much notice.

Rather than proceeding directly to the front gates again, he slipped around the back wall of the kitchens and found himself entering the outer reaches of the garden. Leda's mint was in the far corner, if he remembered correctly, and he swore he could smell it on the air. With light and graceful steps, he hugged the palace wall closely, but without the appearance of one trying to trespass. His only chance of gaining entry was to pretend that he belonged.

He brought a hand to his side. The small dagger that he kept sewn into the side of the loose fabric was ready for use, thirsting for Agamemnon's blood. He would not withdraw it yet. Once inside, then he would pull it from the cracked leather scabbard.

As he wended his way around the perimeter, he found his breath coming shorter, shallower. His palms were slick with sweat and he vigorously rubbed them dry against his thighs. Nothing could slip. Nothing could fail.

There were no doors, only windows; some were open, others not. It was a cool morning and not to everyone's liking.

Ahead of him, he saw a girl exit from the palace and turn to walk away from him. He would take this entrance, no matter where it led. When she was nearly out of sight, he began to hasten his steps when a deep voice snarled through the open window just a few feet ahead of him.

He knew that voice, only in more silken, deadly tones, speaking of honor that would only be achieved with his death. Agamemnon, with Menelaus by his side. And Hector by his, standing opposite one another on a field of combat. The sun beating down on him, not with the grace of Apollo but the harsh glare of his own folly that had brought such a thing to pass.

His palms sweated anew, and he furiously dragged them over his tunic again. He crept forward, pressed himself against the wall and tilted his ear towards the open window. Steam drifted above his head, condensing to shower a slight mist on his upturned face.

It was not just Agamemnon, but a woman's voice soon chimed in. Both were harsh, one as disgusted with the other. A mutual loathing. Paris knew enough from Creusa so that he did not have to guess the woman's identity.

He glanced up. The window was too high for him to peer through. If he were to see, he would have to enter the palace and pray that the entrance before him would quickly lead him to where Agamemnon and Klytemnestra argued. The steam suggested that it was a bathing room. An excellent meeting of place and opportunity. When Klytemnestra left, Agamemnon would likely be alone, undisturbed, distracted by the argument. He would not expect what Paris would deal him.

"I want nothing to do with deciding Elektra's husband," he heard Klytemnestra snap. "First, Myrmidons. Who's next? Fish peddlers? But no doubt you will convince that girl to love you even more no matter what you do!"

"Leave it be, you viper!" Agamemnon growled. "I have much to settle and decide without your worthless opinions cluttering the process!"

"Me, worthless? That I'll try! At least I am not a fat sack of flesh stewing in my broth as you are right now!"

Paris slipped under the window and made way for the door. If Agamemnon's palace were even half as similar to Rameses', there would be a place to hide in the corridor. The sounds of arguing grew more distant, but he doubted the viciousness had lessened.

The door opened easily with nary a creak. The interior was dark and his eyes took some time to adjust. He gained his bearings and peeled one ear for the continuing strains of argument.

There, down the corridor and to the right. So close now… His steps were cautious, almost painful in their tentativeness. He fumbled at his dagger and withdrew it, concealing it in the folds of his tunic. The hilt was warm and comforting in his hand.

A soft flurry of commotion sounded down at the end of the corridor. He heard desperate weeping, the thin strains of sorrow that identified the distressed person as Leda. Melaina's steely voice cut through the sobs.

"Hush yourself!" she snapped. "If you cringe like that before the queen, she will only take more pleasure in beating you! You have fairly done it this time with your sniveling snooping about. No doubt she's trying to soak out her fury with you. This is the last place she can possibly be. We have been everywhere."

Leda cried out again and the crack of a slap sang down the darkened hall. "Please, Melaina," she sobbed. "I--I saw nothing. Please let me go!"

"Lies should be dealt with as swiftly as disobedience!" Melaina said. "Had I my way, I'd hold you under the water until you learned a lesson worth remembering!"

Paris flattened himself against the wall as Melaina and Leda passed the end of the exit corridor. He peered around the corner and saw Melaina suddenly stop, whipping Leda around by the wrist without mercy, prompting another cry of pain. Melaina shook her to be quiet.

Leda's tears fell away to anger born of fear. She lashed out with her free hand, balled ikt into a fist, and struck at Melaina. "May Hyrtius see you for the piss trench you are!" she spat. "You are nothing but the queen's _dog_!"

Paris saw Melaina raise a hand to slap her again when Agamemnon's voice bellowed angrily through the closed door. He gasped when the shout gave way to a pained, gurgling shriek. Melaina froze, her hand still raised in the air, and stared towards the bath. Leda had crouched in anticipation of the blow and was as frozen as Melaina.

The sound was one of a beast being slaughtered, and the ewe was too distant for it to be her gagging, dying cries. Paris' body went hot, then cold. His hands flew open as a spasm rocked him from head to toe. The dagger fell from his hand and clattered noisily against the flagstone floor.

The sound startled Melaina and she looked over her shoulder to see him scrambling to pick up his blade. He was seen, but not caught. Not yet.

There was little left in question of what had just happened behind the door. He had not simply heard an argument, but a prelude to murder. He had had no effect by coming to Mycenae. This would have happened, with or without him.

But one thing was now certain. Leda would surely suffer if left to their absent mercies. He might yet escape, but she had to come with him.

He ran down the corridor towards Melaina, his plan simple and bare. Melaina's shock was rendering her immobile and she stared at him, dumbstruck at not only his presence, but his actions.

Paris shoved Melaina aside, but the woman quickly recovered and began to beat him around the head with her free hand. Leda wrenched herself free and helped Paris fend off Melaina's renewed attacks. He finally found the opening he sought and pinned the woman against the wall with one hand clasped around her throat.

Her eyes bulged and she lashed her feet out at his shins in desperation, knocking one leg out from under him. Melaina slipped from his grasp, but stopped when another figure rushed at them, emerging from some hidden alcove further down the hall.

It came at them, shadowy and terrifying. The door clunked open behind them and Paris whirled around to see Klytemnestra standing there, her hands covered in blood, thick crimson drops sliding down one of her cheeks. Her hair had come loose from its combs, and her eyes were wide. Not in terror or shock at what she had done, but with triumphant vengeance.

Leda ran into him, but his own shock proved immovable. "Xandros!" she cried. "Run!"

Too late. He felt himself caught up in a tide that carried him into the room, the pushing force that of the shadowed figure. He, Leda and Melaina were dumped into the room, all of them scrambling to retain their footing. He stumbled over to the tub and caught himself on the edge. He felt his stomach revolt at the sight before him.

Agamemnon's eyes had not yet glazed, but were still bright and black with life. His fingers worked feebly at the bloody gash that adorned his throat like a necklace of liquid rubies. He was clinging to life, defiantly and angrily like the miserable man he was.

"Aegisthus!" Klytemnestra sang to the figure, and Paris now saw that the man was garbed in a robe of the finest cloth, denoting him a rich noble. "He yet lives. Do the final honor!"

Paris lost his breath as Aegisthus parted his robe and brought forth a small axe. _They are mad. All mad…_

No! This was not even murder, but butchery! As much as he hated Agamemnon and all that he had ever done, he would never have condoned himself to stoop so savagely.

Aegisthus rushed at the tub that held his dying king, and Paris could see the man's determination was propelled by not just insanity and greed alone. He was truly frightened, and therefore more dangerous.

Aegisthus raised the axe above Agamemnon's head, his face contorted and red as the gravity of the deed before him warred with whatever shreds of conscience and decency remained. Paris thought he paused, ever so slightly, and he took advantage of it, launching himself at Aegisthus with as much strength as his own panic-stricken body would allow.

While the queen's murderous lover had the fairest of hair and the face of a debaucher rather than a lean soldier, he was not soft or slight. The robe masked the power and muscle, and Paris felt he had hit a wall. Aegisthus staggered slightly, but he recovered too quickly, his concentration now broken on his previous task and now fixed on this new obstacle.

"Kill him, Aegisthus!" Klytemnestra cried. "He will be our murderer! Kill him and you will be praised by all!"

Paris ducked and weaved as the axe swung wildly from Aegisthus' iron grip. One blow glanced off his forearm, digging deep, and Paris screamed in pain. His eyes became unclear, everything around him strange and misshapen. The pain, all he could comprehend was the pain…

Another blow landed, and an explosion of agony burst throughout his shoulder, fingering across his chest. He saw blood; not Agamemnon's, but his. Spattered against the side of the tub. On the floor. More blows fell, but he only sensed it from the jarring that ran through him. It was not possible to feel greater pain.

Leda's screams pierced the muffled clanging in his ears, the puffs of murderous exertion by the man so blindingly killing him. "Run!" he cried, falling to his knees. "Ru—"

He collapsed, defeated, and heard the clatter of the axe on stone by his head as his eyes were veiled with red tears.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Creusa glanced up from her mending for what she would have deemed was the thousandth time, had she been able to count so high.

It was mid-morning. No sign of Leda. Xandros was still gone.

She jabbed her finger with the needle, all the more remarkable for its dullness. Swearing, she jammed it in her mouth and sucked on it. Her foot drummed an impatient tattoo on the dirt floor. Finally, she picked up the linen shift and threw it across the room, barely missing the cook fire in the hearth.

A drink. Wine. Tea. Some brew, something to calm her. She would get nothing done if she did not do something to steady her nerves.

"Where are you, children?" she wailed, throwing the heavens an imploring look. She covered her face with her hands and tried not to weep. There was still time for them to return, their long absence explained. But as the minutes passed, she found herself unable to believe it.

She rose from the table, shaking, and worked nervously about her small house. Her trembling caused the water to slop over the side of the small brew kettle and she nearly threw it to join the sooty gown in the corner. Had she a walking stick, she would have likely given over to her anxiety and smashed every piece of crockery.

Bowing her head, she finally let the tears flow, the racking sobs heaving her large bosom and staining her gown.

The door smashed open behind her and Creusa yelped in surprise. She was speechless as she watched the visitor slam the door shut and sink against it. Blood spotted the front of her chiton, as if she had stood too close to the butcher's work.

Breathless, she slid slowly to the floor and stared up at Creusa through wide, disbelieving eyes. Her face twisted and she burst into tears.

"Oh Creusa!" Leda moaned. "I must go to Phthia!"

* * *

One more chapter to go, folks. Thanks again for reading, and please review! I'll treasure the confidence and good vibes from them if/when I get laid off (a distinct possibility, damn it all to Hell).

Huge thanks to the reviewers for the past chapter, and to my sounding board, ConcreteHole, who was nice enough to give thoughts about Paris a patient listen. :-)


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

"You cannot intend for me to eat that!" Andromache exclaimed incredulously, making a face at the contents of the bowl before her. "I can barely see the meat for all the gravy!"

Iasemi pulled the dish away and studied it, confused. She held it up to the fading light coming through the window and poked at one of the muttonchops with her finger. "But this is what you ate yesterday!" she protested. "Twice, I might add!"

Andromache leaned back against the decorously arranged litter of pillows. "Well, my stomach will have none of it today," was the testy reply. "Unless you _enjoy_ holding my hair while I vomit."

Iasemi laid a hand over her stomach and blanched, swallowing with some difficulty. "Mistress, you know how easily I can get sick. Just mention the word and I--" She paled even more with mounting nausea.

"Then take it away," Andromache said sweetly, "and bring me something I will be able to keep down."

"I am not even going to try to guess what that might be anymore," Iasemi said, visibly frustrated. "This is all new to me and I was robbed of the...pleasure of tending you through your last pregnancy."

"Just as well you were not of proper stature in Hector's house at the time," Andromache said. "I was quite a trial to those around me. My women in Troy would not believe how agreeable I am today!"

From Andromache's proud, satisfied expression, it was plain to Iasemi that her mistress did not share her own fleeting recognition that these same women no doubt had suffered any number of miserable fates after Troy fell. Yet Iasemi would hold no grudge. Andromache's spirits had indeed been light, considering her massively pregnant state, and Iasemi did not want to dampen her spirits by memories of people it would have taken supernatural magic to save. Not everyone could have escaped through the underground tunnel that ran to the banks of the Scamander, and mention of those left behind would be an unfair accusation of failure.

Iasemi shook off her melancholy when she saw Andromache struggling to lean forward while groping clumsily at the pillows behind her. She set down the bowl and braced Andromache forward with a firm hand on her back while the other dutifully rearranged the pillows.

"You may have to do this again soon," Andromache said from her miserable, bent position.

"I know," Iasemi said, unable to prevent her exhaustion from punctuating her reply with a sigh.

"Be thankful you do not sleep with me, then!" As soon as she spoke, Andromache bit her lip in impatience with herself. "I am sorry. It is so hard to find comfort when carrying...this around." She cradled her belly and allowed Iasemi to gently lay her back against the rearranged pillows. She looked up at the girl with regretful eyes. "I will be in a better temper once I drop this litter."

Iasemi laughed. "From the way you talk, one would think you were carrying kittens! The midwife says you're bearing but one. Even Meton agrees, and you know he is usually contrary out of principle when it comes to another's opinion."

Andromache groaned. "Eudorus wants twins. He hinted as much last night after I ordered him to rub my feet. He was baiting me, I'm sure."

"And what did you say?" Iasemi giggled.

Andromache smiled, pleased. "That I would push one out, but if he wanted the other, he would have to crawl in after it."

"Would that not hurt _more_?"

"In the thick of Astyanax's birth, it did feel as if a grown man was trying to--" She fluttered her hands in fretful impatience and covered her face in remembrance of past, horrifying birth pains. "Oh, I do not want to think about it!"

"There, there," Iasemi said, stroking her mistress' hair with a soft, soothing hand. "Your day is coming upon you and it will be done before you realize it. Not much longer to wait."

"It seems I have done nothing but wait," Andromache murmured. "He has not come back, no word..."

"Please do not think on it!" Iasemi whispered. "You have much of your own to worry about without adding Prince Paris to your troubles."

Andromache let her hands fall into her lap and Iasemi saw that tears had already formed in her eyes. "When he left," she said, "he was so confident that I nearly believed he would be successful within a month, maybe two. Word would speed on wings to me from him or another that he had seen it through to the end. But he has been gone so long."

"Nearly the length of the babe you carry," Iasemi agreed sadly.

Andromache cast her a reproachful look. "Need you remind me? Seven months. Seven!"

"He will return, mistress. He will!" was the fervent assurance. "Perhaps he's had to bide his time longer than he planned. It was no small thing he set out to do!"

"I know, and he is a grown man." She shook her head. "But I think I will forever see him as Hector's troublesome, hapless little brother. Hector certainly never shed himself of it, try as he might - and at my behest, oddly enough!" Upon seeing Iasemi's eyes widen in baffled loss of advice, Andromache summoned a smile. "Ignore me and my meandering thoughts. I know there is only so much you can do to ease my mind."

She glanced up and started at the sight of Eudorus standing in the doorway of the bedchamber. "And how long have you been standing there?" she demanded.

Eudorus' eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Too long, apparently," he said. "I expected a kinder greeting!"

Andromache took in the sight of him. It was nearing sundown and he looked fresh from the baths. His skin glistened with a thin sheen of oil and she caught a scent of olive on the air. He exuded a calm and rest that she, for all her enforced bed rest and Iasemi's diligent care, had been unable to find. It made her more than a little resentful.

Andromache turned to Iasemi and, unseen by Eudorus, let her features go slack with relief. She would not worry if he had overheard some of her talk about Paris, but the particulars of his absence was a truth she did not want to be forced to explain today. Not until the baby came. The day would come eventually, but...not today! A further glance at Eudorus assured her that he had only heard the innocuous tail of her lament.

"Is she fit to see her husband, Iasemi?" Eudorus asked from his position in the doorway.

"Oh, I should say so," was the cheerful reply. "She has tried me terribly today, so I believe it is another's turn." Giving her bed-bound mistress an encouraging smile, she made to leave, the bowl of refused food in her hand.

"For that insolence," Andromache said, "you can bring me what I _do_ desire to eat!"

Eudorus laughed. "And what would it be this time? Fresh pomegranate juice? Fig seed bread? Something Menesthius will have to find on an obscure rock in the sea that can only be harvested by moonlight?"

Andromache's hurt look was not feigned. "Have I been so difficult?"

Eudorus and Iasemi shared a tolerant grimace.

"Fig seed bread has been the oddest request so far," Eudorus said. "You do realize that it's only made when there's absolutely nothing else to grind? Usually only starving wretches will pounce on it the way you did."

"It is delicious," Andromache said, her pride becoming more wounded by the second. "I make no excuses!"

"I will bring you some dates stuffed with almond and honey paste," Iasemi said gently, her tone unmistakably that of one trying to soothe a fussy child. "Kallisto said she would make some today."

"For me?" Andromache asked warily.

"Yes, for you!" Eudorus said, emphatic. "She's resigned herself to it all. The proof that there is a child is hard to refute now, and nothing dire has come from Agamemnon's direction, so she is becoming content."

"Slowly."

"Well, she _is_ Kallisto," Eudorus replied with a sardonic smile. "Like the earth, she is slow but steady. The earthquakes are violent, but fleeting."

He stopped Iasemi as she began to move past him through the door and pointed at the bowl of chops and gravy. "I will take that."

Andromache wrinkled her nose. "You are going to sit here and eat them in front of me, aren't you?"

He sauntered over to the bed and quickly made himself comfortable, reclining against the pillows. He had to lie quite close to her to do so, and Andromache was torn by the comfort his nearness gave her versus the nauseating proximity of the congealing, lumpy gravy. She looked away and inched closer to him.

"Don't make much noise when you eat them," she said. "You tend to slurp."

He chuckled. "Certainly, your Majesty."

"I _have_ been a monster these past few months! I seem to recall that title spoken just as mockingly when I was in this condition before." She ventured a look at him, keeping her eyes studiously away from the bowl. At least it is getting darker, she thought. The sight is worse than the smell.

"Hector survived that, and I will, too," Eudorus said with a smile as he lightly tapped a chop against the edge of the bowl.

"I daresay you will," she said, eyes dancing warmly. She had to be honest with herself: Eudorus' ability to speak of Hector with only passing pain at first, and then increasing confidence and casualness, had done much to lessen her own pain when she thought about him. She suspected Eudorus knew it, and pressed on for her own benefit despite whatever discomfort it might have caused him.

"You have been good to me," she said, shifting onto her side and cradling her head against her arm. "I am so afraid my more...regal personality has intruded on the soft, gentle flower I normally am."

Eudorus laughed again. "If you say so."

"What?"

"That you are a soft, gentle flower."

She prodded him in the side with a finger. "I will have you whipped for such insolence."

Eudorus dropped the half-eaten chop into the bowl, licked his fingers, and set it aside. "Then I had best behave." He settled a hand over her belly. "How is he today?"

"Twins...a son... You are making a slew of predictions lately."

"I will never be wrong that way."

"But nor will I ever know what you truly think!" she accused playfully.

He massaged her stomach with his broad hand, the calloused skin catching on the fine linen of her bed dress. "I think a child of your body cannot fail to please."

"What flattery! But you had a part to play in it, if I remember so fondly." She watched his hand caress her stomach and suddenly felt a tremble issue from his fingers. She grasped his hand and squeezed it, sensing the cause of his tremor. "Do not be afraid. I will come through it like a sturdy peasant!"

Iasemi reentered with a plate of honeyed dates balanced in one hand while the other held a lit taper. She took in the sight before her and handed the dish to Eudorus before quickly setting about lighting the candles by the bed. As light and fast as Hermes, she was gone.

Eudorus took a date and held it before her mouth. Andromache plucked it from his fingers with her lips and chewed slowly, but there was no sensual calculation to it. Her thoughts were heavy at her imminent reckoning with the childbed, and the trembling of his hand, combined with his silent reply to her own over-brave assurance, indicated that the matter was causing him untold fear as well.

"I am confident, Eudorus," she told him, her voice stronger. "All will be well." She offered him a date and he took it, his eyes searching her face for some sign, however slight, that doubt and fear lingered.

"I will be there," he said, "should you want me."

She leaned forward and gave him a kiss. "The midwife will not have you! But think of me and I will cling to it to see me through."

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her close. She returned the embrace, feeling slightly embarrassed when she had to shift herself into some small measure of comfort against him.

"Will you not be glad to finally have your wife back, instead of this fat sack of grain?" she asked once she was settled.

Eudorus kissed the top of her head and chuckled with returning peace.

"Why don't you answer?" she demanded after a curious long time had passed.

"I was still eating."

"Likely excuse," she murmured, snuggling her head deeper against his chest.

She closed her eyes and allowed the periodic, gentle motions beneath her as he reached for and chewed dates to lull her into a light sleep. She was sometimes roused by a different motion: his fingers running through her hair, or the loving touch of his hand on her hip. Was he trying to memorize her in case the worst happened and the gods were not kind?

Artemis' promise to meet again was never far from her mind. Perhaps she had already come as she said she would and had guided her to accepting Eudorus' request to share his bed. Perhaps the promise had already been fulfilled.

No, she would not think on it. She had survived thus far; she would continue to do so, with the help of the gods or without.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Mistress!"

Andromache was jerked from her sleep and opened her eyes blearily. The candles had not burned down significantly. Her sleep had not been long. Eudorus was moving beneath her and she propped herself up and stared, unseeing, in the direction of the door.

"What is it?" she asked, dragging a hand across her eyes.

"There is a woman here," Iasemi whispered. "She demands to see you."

Andromache flinched in surprise. No, it could not be Artemis, summoned into real form simply by her own thoughts. To presume as much was blasphemous. She looked at Eudorus in confusion. "Should we see her tonight, or give her a place to rest and then speak on the morrow? She might have run away from one of your men."

Eudorus hesitated and turned to Iasemi. "Where did she come from?"

Iasemi paused, but she did not look at him. "I think she comes from the south," she told Andromache, the last word drawn out more slowly than the rest.

Andromache's eyes widened, understanding Iasemi's unspoken suspicion.

"Where is she?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

"A guard brought her to me when she said she wanted to see you. I left her in the kitchen with some food. She is nearly starved and looks like she has traveled some distance."

Andromache struggled into a sitting position and was nearly on her feet beside the bed when Iasemi gave a small shriek and whirled around. Standing in the doorway was a slender woman, a ghostly figure in a travel-stained gown. A heavy woolen cloak hung from her shoulders, and it bore the marks of a long and arduous journey. Her face was thin and pale, her eyes shadowed by circles that dipped far too low on her cheeks to have been born from lack of sleep alone. She looked haunted, and hunted.

She ran over to the bedside and threw herself down, the piece of bread that Iasemi had given her still clutched, partially eaten, in her fingers.

"Princess Andromache!" she cried, her throat so dry the words were painful scrapes on the air.

Iasemi quickly went to the girl and gripped her shoulders from behind. "Up, you!" she hissed. "How dare you intrude in here unbidden!"

Iasemi's vicious tone had no effect on the frightened girl.

"I come from Mycenae!"

When Andromache saw the defeated, wary expression on Iasemi's face, she understood that her servant had been aware of the reason for the girl's visit and had tried to extricate her from Eudorus' company with no one the wiser. Like the news that this girl no doubt brought, Iasemi's own plans had failed.

Andromache did not spare another look at either Iasemi or the crouched figure at her bedside. Her eyes went to Eudorus, and his expression was one of fading shock and dawning realization and anger.

"Andromache, do not tell me what I am thinking," he said.

She could no longer look him in the eyes and turned away.

The visitor was oblivious to what was happening above her miserably bowed head. "I was sent here by Prince Paris," she babbled. "He wanted me to tell you that he...he..."

Andromache sat down heavily upon the bed. "Is he captured, then?"

"No," the woman stammered. "Killed...slaughtered by Klytemnestra and her lover, the Lord Aegisthus. He and Agamemnon, both killed..."

This Andromache was not expecting. Nor was Eudorus, who looked to her for explanation but found her just as confused as he.

He reached over from his position and tapped the girl on her shoulder so that she would look up.

"What is your name, girl?"

"Leda," she sobbed. "Prince Paris...he told me...bleeding--"

"Calm yourself," he commanded, the order firm yet kind. "Then leave no detail unspoken."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

_Leda was no stranger to the butcher's shop and had seen all manner of creatures meet their Fate at the end of a blade or a pair of powerful hands around their neck, but never had she seen a man so viciously attack another. Aegisthus' fury was short-lived, but lethal all the same._

_The bloody damage done, the axe fell from his hands. The blade clattered, shrieked, against the stone floor. The room pulsed with sounds. Agamemnon's life continued to gurgle through his slit throat; Melaina wheezed thinly, hyperventilating, her eyes bulbous and disbelieving; and Leda realized she had clamped a hand over her mouth to stop the screams. She cowered against the wall like a beaten dog, and if she had had claws, she would have tried to dig through it._

_Her eyes were fixed on 'Xandros, a bloody, broken mass. He still moved, though barely, but neither murderer seemed inclined to inflict further butchery. He had told her to run and yet she was still here. Why could she not move?_

_Her concentration was broken was Melaina suddenly loomed before her, gripped her shoulders and shook her roughly. She looked past Melaina and saw that Klytemnestra was busily arranging the scene to imply that 'Xandros had been Agamemnon's assassin. The queen tossed her dagger onto the floor beside him, its blade still wet with Agamemnon's blood._

_The feeble gurgling from the tub stopped, and she heard Klytemnestra give a pleased sigh._

_"Leda!" Melaina hissed, shaking her again._

_Leda's eyes flew to Melaina's face and, even through her own terror, she could see that her panic was not unshared. A thick sheen of sweat covered the woman's face and her breath was coming short and fast._

_"Stay here!" she commanded. "Stay here."_

_She stumbled to her feet and went to Klytemnestra, who issued orders with nothing but sharp gestures. Leda saw Melaina obey unthinkingly, dazed._

_Leda remained pressed against the cool wall, her gaze flying around at the painted scenes that surrounded her. There were gorgons, sea creatures, gods and goddesses dispensing their kindnesses and their cruelties. She had no doubt what lay in store for her if she remained._

She had no time to think further because Melaina swooped down on her again. "We are leaving to summon the guards," she said. "You stay here." But the quick glance Melaina gave the window to her left issued another command.

_"Is the chit taken care of?" Klytemnestra said, pausing by the door._

_Melaina gave Leda a withering glare for the queen's benefit. "Quite," she said. "Frightened of her own shadow."_

_Then all three were gone. As soon as the door shut, Leda scrambled across the floor to 'Xandros. She paid no heed to the pain that shot through her knees as they scraped on the stone, the thin fabric of her gown doing little to protect her. 'Xandros would die soon, but she could not escape without comforting him. A simple shepherd could not die so wretchedly, so wrongly. The murder of a king would be pinned upon him, and none would dare to question it._

_She knelt beside him and could not decide where to put her hand to staunch the blood. There were so many wounds. Finally, she took the edge of his cape and held it firmly against the wound on his neck and shoulder. It seemed to help. His eyes acquired a brightness that implied a returning awareness._

_"'Xandros..." she whispered. "What can I do?"_

_'Xandros' movement was slight, more a spasm than something deliberate._

_"Do you have any family?" she went on, her __free hand__ brushing the bloody locks from his brow, a brow now creased deeply in perpetual pain. "They must know..."_

_"Phthia." The word was a garbled gasp, spat out as if in fear it would be only one of a few breaths granted him. "Eudorus!" His eyes rolled up to meet hers, and when she nodded, his fading, dying body began to tremble, as if in excitement that she understood him._

_"The Myrmidon," she confirmed, feeling fresh tears burn her eyes anew. The hope that lit his face when she spoke was agonizing to bear._

_He gripped her arm, the blood on his palm hot and sticky against her skin. Each word was ground out between teeth clenched in the throes of death fended off by the __natural instinct__ to live. "His wife...An--And—mache...Troy!" His grip shook manically, sending a tremor throughout her. At first she thought he was succumbing to shock, but when he smiled, she realized he was gesturing at himself, using her hand._

_The name that came from his tightly-drawn lips was spoken almost as a shiver, faint and fading. Leda nearly missed it, but her wits were not that crippled by her fright. The identity of the man who was bleeding his life onto the floor around them struck her soundly, made everything clear, her path definite._

_By the time she recovered to look at him again with new eyes, Paris of Troy was dead._

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"I did not want to leave him," Leda said, her voice much calmer than upon her entrance in the bedchamber, "but had he still been alive, he would have ordered me to go. I leaped through the window and fled. It has taken me so long to get here."

Andromache remained on the edge of the bed, her posture limp, weary. "He tried. That is all he wanted to do. Try to be half as strong as Hector."

"He didn't succeed," Eudorus pointed out.

Andromache shook her head and looked at him over her shoulder. A corner of her mouth curved in a sad smile. "He did. He did exactly what Hector would have done. I cannot believe that Hector would have allowed a foe, even Agamemnon, to be murdered so dishonorably."

"I daresay you're right," Eudorus replied with an understanding smile after only a brief pause. Andromache suspected his own eyewitness to Hector's regret upon killing the untried Patroclus had changed his mind.

Andromache turned and stared up at the low ceiling, a plaintive sigh that sounded akin to a harnessed sob wafting gently on the air. Where was the poor, doomed boy now? Abandoned on the banks of the Styx, penniless and denied passage to the other side? Or had he deftly convinced Charon to ferry him across with nothing but a smile and a promise that he would do better next time?

She did not trust herself to smile again. The tears would come quickly after.

And she could not turn into a wreckage of sorrow. There were happier things to contemplate.

Another twinge, and then a larger, spreading pain.

"Iasemi, get the midwife," she said calmly. "It seems someone else is intent on joining us tonight!"

Eudorus straightened from his position on the bed and was beside her before she could draw a breath. Iasemi had already vanished, while Leda still remained beside the bed, her eyes wide in wonder at the sight before her.

"If I have brought this upon you with my arrival--" she stammered.

Andromache eased herself against Eudorus, who enveloped her in a tense, nervous embrace. Despite her own anxious state, she settled steady, cool hands on his arms and felt him begin to relax slowly and reluctantly.

She shook her head. "Leda, you unknowingly served Paris well. He was ever trusting of people, granted, but to entrust you with _that_ knowledge and that you saw it through, he thought greatly of you and I owe you a debt."

She focused intently on Leda in an effort to distract herself from the turmoil that began to twist within her body. The fullness of her attention brought a blush to Leda's cheeks and the girl averted her gaze.

"I--I thought he was only a shepherd," she murmured. "I was fond of him."

Andromache brightened when she saw Iasemi return, cloths over her shoulders and birthing stool in hand. Behind her was the midwife, head bent and intent on her carry-box of herbs and potions.

"Leda," Andromache said, "if you wish to attend to me tonight and ever after, I would be honored. I feel we will have much to discuss in coming days."

Eudorus lowered his lips to Andromache's ear. "Are there not more urgent matters?" he whispered.

She gripped his arms and squeezed them in loving reproach. "You forget, my love, that I have done this before!" The courage to face the coming trial was surging high within her. She would not let it flee.

The pains were quickly coming. It might yet be an easy birth. Astyanax' had been long, agonizing, deadly uncertain. The relief in Hector's face upon seeing living son and wife was not a memory she wanted to relive, knowing the torment he had endured for hours, secluded from her sight, but his ears unguarded against her cries. She would not have another one who loved her endure the same.

Eudorus' warm embrace was only removed after he had helped her from the bed and assisted her onto the stool. A veil was slowly descending over her, and she realized he was gone when the hands that touched her were thin and feminine, the bustle around her knowing and practiced.

"We meet again, little one! I trust I am not late?"

Andromache looked up into the face of Artemis, the youthful visage of the goddess peering at her from the form known to all as the midwife.

The vision was fleeting. Soon the familiar face reappeared, and Andromache would have wondered if she had dreamed it all but for her persistent belief that the goddess had taken an interest in her, a lowly mortal. A royal mortal, but mortal all the same.

Her gown was removed and she shivered in the night air. More candles were lit and she wondered if it was Iasemi, or Leda quickly settling into the new position bestowed upon her. Yes, it was Leda, she decided. The girl had already proven herself strong in hard circumstances. Despite her insistence that she had taken long to journey here from Mycenae, she had done so before the news of Agamemnon's death could come by way of others. The girl was able. Paris had chosen well.

A cup was tilted against her lips and she obediently drank, the potion quickly relaxing her but keeping her away from the brink of sleep. Time may have passed; she was not quite sure. The interior of the chamber was an unending flicker of candlelight, but it was warm, it was calm, it was stripped of the pomp and glory that had intruded upon her in Priam's gilded palace. There were no priests chanting prayers, no army of servants rushing in and out as healers of every station and level of expertise carried out their private, petty wars in their desire to be the one to claim credit for delivering Troy of an heir.

Yes, all that was in the past, never to happen again. She would not miss it.

Troy was gone, the glittering citadels smoke-streaked, its stout walls violated. Gone, all gone. Robbed of its rulers, it lay dashed upon one man's greed. That man was now dead, victim to a war raging inside his own house, the blighted House of Atreus.

A man and woman should expect peace in their home, Andromache thought. Agamemnon did not have it, nor did Hector and I. No ruler of men ever has true peace, and Paris disturbed the peace we had. The Greeks soon followed. I want that peace. I do not want to be denied it again.

She labored. She perspired. She cried. She gripped onto the arms of slave and goddess and bore the force of her want upon them. They absorbed it and did not crumble beneath her crushing hold.

The pain left her with a sudden, liberating blow. The sound of lusty lungs met her ears, followed by the triumphant cries of the three women. She sank forward, and ambrosia-scented arms caught her as easily as one would a fainting child. The lingering effects of the potion nudged her closer to the brink and she gave herself over it, letting the women tend her as small girls would a precious doll.

Despite her drugged state, her consciousness never completely faded. She was aware of motion around her, the tender hands that cleaned her - Leda's mistress, Iasemi's queen, Artemis' mortal curiosity.

Blankets enveloped her, and a fresh linen gown rubbed smooth and welcoming against her skin. A sigh escaped her, of pleasure at a task well-done, of joy at the mantle of peace she could feel invisible upon her shoulders.

"Andromache."

She opened her eyes at the sound of Eudorus' voice and glanced about the room. The women had left, all evidence of her labor vanished.

Except for the large, squirming, swaddled bundle in Eudorus' arms.

He knelt beside her and tenderly cradled the infant between them so both might look upon it.

"A son," he said proudly.

"You say that as if you had allowed yourself only one guess," she teased.

He bent and kissed her brow. "And are you not glad that it is only one? I did not have to go in and get the other."

She laughed softly and gave his arm a feeble, sleepy poke. "Perhaps next time."

Eudorus rose and rounded the bed, setting the baby down beside her. She turned herself over to cradle him from one side while Eudorus laid himself out fully on the other.

They rested, murmuring observations about hair, eyes, nose and fingers. They debated about which family he would eventually most resemble. But they often fell silent, gazing at their child, and each other.

Dawn was still distant, but the candles would fast lose their purpose. The room was already growing naturally light.

It was a new day, and how new they felt.

THE END

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There it is. I hope you enjoyed it. It's been 4 1/2 long years of labor and love. Please make my day and review.


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